When the Curtain Falls
by elanor1421
Summary: Sometimes the best acting there is happens off-stage - you can even fool yourself. Alright I admit it: some RC, maybe some future EC (very tentative), but still mostly Erik's story, for now. Reviews are very welcome. Ch 15 is up.
1. Monsieur Baccour is Uneasy

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything. (I'm sure that covers it.)_

_**A/N: **This fic is based mainly on the 2004 film, plot-wise (that very last scene at the cemetery got me thinking), but with healthy doses of Leroux throughout.Unfortunately, I have never read Susan Kay's book (and while ebay prices remain at 80 dollars and above, I never will)._

_Reviews are very welcome, as is constructive criticism. To any of you lovely people who decide to follow my little story, I should warn you that it builds slowly ... lots of background, lots of moments, lots of viewpoints, so if that's not your type of thing, I apologise in advance._

_Alright, here goes. Some things may not make sense quite yet, but patience is the word. _:)

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

Monsieur Henri Baccour – a round, red, _rich_ man, thoroughly used to having his own way, simply because no other way had ever been necessary – had to admit he felt uneasy. The sensation, so foreign to his well-ordered life, had taken some moments to identify, but he had finally settled on the appropriate label. "Unease".

His reason dismissed the feeling as nonsense. Why should he be uneasy? As a giant in the steel and mining business, he had absolutely no cause whatsoever to be intimidated. By anyone. Especially not by this stranger, of whom he knew nothing. The odds were more than likely he could buy the man ten times over, if he so wished.

Nevertheless, Baccour found himself nervously smoothing his thin moustache. He cleared his throat. He ruffled his newspaper and attempted not to stare at his companion, seated in the opposite corner of the train compartment. However, try as the good Monsieur did, his eyes seemed to keep sliding over the advertisement for "Therapeutic Tonic", up and over the edge of the page, examining the man in what he hoped was a discreet manner.

The stranger had boarded the train at Paris, some three or four hours ago, before the sun had set. Henri had at first been glad at the prospect of company, for he was loquacious by nature and had been alone in the compartment since Rouen; however, this person – slim and tall (he would have towered above Baccour, had they both been standing) – had stalked into the room, removed his hooded cape, and seated himself in the extreme opposite corner, by the shaded window, without so much as a glance in his companion's direction. Neither had spoken in the intervening hours. The man appeared to find communication unnecessary, and had spent the time either reading, or staring at the small gap between the shade and the window (presumably at the dark countryside flying past outside). Henri himself was, unusually, at a loss for words. Every time he had concocted a pleasantly neutral conversation-starter, he had turned to the man only to find the sentence die on his lips before he could get the first word out: all he could do was stare, and then turn sheepishly back to his paper. The stranger produced no visible reaction to the awkward glances and curious looks, but Baccour had the distinct feeling that he knew he was being watched.

At any rate, from his furtive inspections, Henri could see that the clothes were good. Having a life-long love of well-tailored suits, Baccour could tell that all the pieces of the man's attire, including the large black cape which was draped neatly on the seat beside him, were of fine, expensive material. They fit him well. He had also with him a well-made travelling-case and trunk, as well as quality leather gloves and shoes. So … this unusual person appeared to be a gentleman, at least.

His bearing suggested the same – at the moment, he was seated in a languid yet elegant position; relaxed in the seat, his right elbow occupying the low windowsill as if it were an arm-rest. His left hand cradled a book, poised at reading angle. The volume, from its cover, appeared to be in a language Baccour could not identify - perhaps an Eastern tongue - and every few minutes, a gloved hand would rise and turn the page with infinite grace.

But it was the man's face that captured Baccour's attention – it seemed too incongruous. The side facing him showed a clean shaven cheek with a strong jaw, dark brow and dark slicked-back hair, perhaps with the faintest touch of grey at the temples, complimenting the aristocratic nose and a firmly set mouth. Baccour guessed that the man was in his early forties. His nationality was indeterminate, however: he was probably some type of European, but his slightly darker skin and exotic air suggested the possibility that he had other blood within him too. The eye, as it moved back and forth across the page in front of it, was startling in its intensity; even from this distance, Baccour could see that the iris was an unusual grey-green colour, punctuated by a magnetic, black pupil. Looking at it, even though its gaze was directed elsewhere, Henri was filled with an inexplicable chilliness.

The other half of the man's face was on the further side, facing the window shade – yet it was impossible to miss the main feature. It was concealed by plaster and bandages, from the hairline to the right side of the nose, and from the mouth to the jaw ... the radiant white of these trappings stood in stark contrast to his skin, dark hair and black attire.

Baccour could only guess that the stranger had suffered some great injury to his face, though he was at pains to imagine how a gentleman like as this would find himself in such a situation. Occasionally, you may see some poor person trussed up like this – factory accidents, and things of that sort, or diseases they did not have the money to cure – but certainly not someone like this. The only explanation he could find was that the man had been abroad … the colonies in Africa, perhaps, where things were dangerous, or else the East … and some violence had befallen him there. Perhaps he had been in the army.

Finally, curiosity and loneliness got the better of our dear Henri, and he summoned up the courage to talk to the man. He hoped a better acquaintance would rid him of the irrational and nagging unease he felt.

"So, Monsieur. I could not help but notice the book you are reading. Have you lately been in foreign parts?" He spoke and his words fell clumsily, they seemed to be muffled by the man's imposing presence.

Slowly, the sculpted head turned, and the two unnerving rested upon him, for the first time.

"No, not lately," the stranger answered. The voice floated out of his mouth like a warm gust of dusty summer air; it was soft, deep and vaguely comforting, though perhaps threaded through with a hint of contempt. Henri, momentarily stunned by the combined effect of the eyes and the voice – making him even more uncomfortable than before – said nothing for some minutes. The man returned to his book, since the statement had obviously been designed to close the discussion.

However, our Baccour was a persistent man, and had not opened the conversation only to let it fall by the wayside. When he had composed himself, he made another valiant attempt.

"So you come from Paris, Monsieur?"

After a moment, the man looked up. "Paris was my home for many years." Once again, the stranger's voice washed over Henri. It was a peculiar sensation … listening seemed to bring on an odd combination of relaxation and alertness.

"I see. Me, I come from Nice," he replied, swallowing hard. The stranger raised his visible eyebrow, almost in surprise, and the eyes were suddenly kindled with what Henri interpreted as interest. He continued, somewhat encouraged: "Yes, my family are there – my wife and the children – but find myself travelling a great deal on business … I'm in steel and mining, you know. Very promising industry. Yes … so I go to Paris and, well, everywhere, really. I am just now returning from Rouen. Oh, but it is a tiring trip!" He sighed. "You are headed South as well … where are you bound?"

"I am not sure – my plans at this moment are tentative and I do not know my final destination."

"Indeed? That sounds wonderful!" Henri chortled. "Sometimes I wish for my bachelor days when I too had that sort of freedom." He sighed and smiled, though it was clear he didn't really mean what he said. "Well Monsieur, if you find yourself at a loss for a destination, why don't you visit our fair city, Nice? It is truly charming, and there is no place more relaxing in all the world. When I come back from my long, weary travels, I am always glad to be returning to so delightful a home."

"If only all weary travellers could be as ... _fortunate …_ as yourself, Monsieur. I shall keep your suggestion in mind, for I have not yet seen Nice."

Henri may have imagined it, but he could have sworn the man had started to say something other than 'fortunate' just then, though he didn't know what. However, Baccour was very pleased at having extracted more than a few words from the stranger, and found himself offering an invitation on impulse.

"Excellent. And if you do find yourself there without a guide, please call on my wife and I – we live on Rue Blanche." He said this with some pride, it was the best street in town. "We would be delighted to have you."

The stranger smiled slowly, dipping his head with poise. His eyes flashed something Henri could not quite interpret. "Thank you for your generous invitation, Monsieur. Forgive me, I don't believe I caught your name?"

"Ah, Baccour is my name." The fatter man rose as quickly as his ample stomach would allow. He stumbled across the compartment to shake the gloved hand of the stranger, who had extended it with no apparent intention of rising from his place. "I am Henri Baccour, pleased-to-know-you" he said, panting slightly as he half-bowed to reach the hand … the scene resembled nothing so much as a presentation at court. Finally, our uncomfortable subject heaved himself into the seat opposite the monarch, smoothing his lapel.

The dark man merely replaced his arm on the sill, fingers curved, their tips lightly touching the wood. "Ah. It is indeed a pleasure, Monsieur Baccour. My own name is Erik Angebeau," he said, smirking.

Baccour caught the smile and assumed it was in reference to the name. "Angebeau? As in …" He mimicked the beating of wings with a grin.

"Exactly." Monsieur Angebeau nodded with a short, harsh laugh. Unlike his speaking voice, it left an unpleasant ring in the air. "Erik will do."

"Very well, and you must call me Henri." Henri smiled, pleased with himself.

The conversation stalled, and Erik began once again to leaf through his book. _He seems a very pleasant fellow_, Baccour told himself. _I was just being silly. Perhaps he is simply not talkative by nature. _However, the truth was that Henri was only slightly less apprehensive than before: without the soothing voice, the man's look and expressions were as unnerving as ever. Secretly he hoped Erik would not avail himself of the invitation so rashly given – Baccour was a generous man who delighted in entertaining visitors, but he found himself wondering what kind of guest this Monsieur Angebeau would make.

"Ahem. So have you a profession, Erik? I thought you may perhaps be a military man."

Erik looked up slowly and deliberately, his lips were curved into a grim smile and his eyes flashed brightly. "And why would you think so, my good Henri?"

"Well," the poor man stammered. "Well you have the bearing of one. I thought …"

The interrupted with his soft, strong voice. "You thought I might have been _injured _in combat, correct?"

Henri could do no more than stare apologetically.

"Well, you are not far from the truth," Erik continued, breaking the eye contact and speaking rapidly. "I was in service once, a while ago, during which I acquired the … injury … you have no doubt noticed."

"Oh, I am truly sorry Monsieur. It must indeed have been a deep wound if it is yet to heal." Henri looked at him with all the compassion he could muster.

Erik did not return the man's gaze – instead, he pulling the shade aside a few centimetres and looked into the black window. He spoke softly. "Yes, it was a deep wound." He replaced the shade. "But the military is no longer my path. I now pursue … other things." In the man's eyes, Henri found a tacit warning against asking what "other things" meant.

"Oui, Monsieur, I quite understand. There is no peace in a military life."

In a final effort, Henri asked Erik about his book. The latter replied that it dealt with Far Eastern philosophy, and contained a chapter he _had_ hoped to finish by the time he reached his destination. Accordingly, Baccour left him to his studies and they sat in silence until the train reached Lyon.

There they parted amiably, as Erik was to alight and Henri was to continue on this line.

"Au revoir, good Henri, and thank you once again – I shall see you in Nice, if I am able," Erik dipped his head with the same grace he executed any motion.

"I look forward to it," returned Henri, a smile clumsily plastered on his face.


	2. Beautiful Dreamer

_**A/N**: Sorry if you tried to read this before I managed to get the partitions in and fix things up. Must have been a tad confusing. What is with this thing removing all my symbols and messing things up? Argh. I must be technologically challenged. Third time I've uploaded this._

_Alright, so on to some heftier stuff now. Erik. My fear is that the ALW fans will dislike the Leroux parts of him and vice versa, so I'll end up annoying everybody. Heh. Oh well, the Leroux is quite subtle – though I will be using a couple important things from the book in later chapters, which I will note as we go._

_Thanks to the people who reviewed Chapter 1, much appreciated. :)_

* * *

**2. Beautiful Dreamer**

The inn's room was small, but comfortable - a low fire burned, lending the polished wood of the furniture a glossy glow and the bed, piled with a thick quilt and pillows, looked inviting. Erik dropped his small case by the trunk, which the porter had already brought in. He took a minute to absorb the stillness, watching a flame dance within the sculpted glass of a lamp ...that little lick of fire must feel safe in there, ensconced as it was in its round, glass house. That's why it twirled so brightly.

He sighed, letting the silly idea pass, then removed his cape and threw it on a nearby chair. His jacket and scarf followed, then he walked across the carpet and reclined, still half-dressed, on the bed, leaning against the headboard. His eyes slid shut. God, he was tired. So very, very tired. And his head hurt. It felt as if a tight cord had been wound about his skull and some demon was pulling at it … tugging, mercilessly. He groaned a little, and rubbed his scalp in an effort to make it go away.

When he got to his temples, he carefully removed the plaster from his face … the whole structure came off quite easily, working just like a mask. He had had to give up the elegant white leather cover he was used to, he was sure the police had found it back at the Opera House all those years ago. Even now, wearing it in public would be the same as signing his death warrant.

He had discovered some time ago that the best type of mask to wear when he went out in public was one that looked like plaster and bandages. People usually came to their own conclusions about what had happened to him – many, like Henri, pictured him in the wars (the more imaginative or romantic ones sometimes suggested a duel), some put it down to an unfortunate accident, while others surmised that he was recovering from some sort of disease. On the rare occasion he had to speak of it directly, Erik usually observed what the other person was thinking, and simply supported it. It was easiest that way - when their suspicions were confirmed, what lay under the mask was no longer an unknown, and so no longer a source of fear. Disgust, awe, embarrassment, aversion, pity … he still had all of these directed towards him at times, but at least fear was not always the dominant reaction. Of all the looks people gave him, it was the look of fear in a woman's eyes that … annoyed … him the most. He had no patience for it.

He exhaled as he massaged his stiff face muscles and kicked off his shoes. Travelling was always a tedious business. _People_ everywhere. Inquisitive fools. He turned the lamp low and his breathing gradually became deep and rhythmic. As he came nearer to sleep, unbidden memories crowded his mind.

* * *

It was now about four years since he had left the Opera House, a ruined and pathetic creature, disgusting to himself. He remembered the night vividly – he had found himself somewhere on the back streets of Paris, with nothing but the few belongings he had hastily gathered as he left: some money, clothes and drawings. He didn't even know why he had taken them, because all he really wanted to do was die, here in the street. He remembered the keen wind that had whipped him as he kneeled in the gutter, doubled over in agony, retching ... _Christine was gone Christine was _gone ... the realization had sliced into him again and again as he wept, shuddering, unable to get up. He was sure he had spent hours there, with his knees to the cobblestone. 

Finally, he had sensed daybreak and his instinct for survival forced him onto his feet. He had stumbled about in the blue light of dawn until he found a small, abandoned shop - it was more just a hole in the stone wall than anything else. He pushed aside the scrap wood blocking the entrance to find alittle space, covered with debris: the rafters looked shaky, but he could see the shell of a counter, a table, and the remnants of some merchandise – mostly bolts of scorched fabric. It looked as if there had been a fire here. He laughed maniacally at the thought, until tears came again. This is what the costume room at the opera house probably looked like now. Thanks to him.

Almost as if in punishment, he decided that this would be his home for a while.

He survived in that place for God knows how long, sleeping in the splinters and sawdust, crying and moaning until he couldn't breathe. For hours on end, he would stare at the sketches of Christine he had brought with him, murmuring her name, words of love, words of hate, confessing to her as if she were a priest. Or an angel. Wishing like a child that somehow everything would just be … alright. He tried to think of other things, but that was just like closing his eyes to make the darkness go away. Dreaming of her was torture, not dreaming of her was worse still, for then he was all alone. All alone in the dark.

One by one, the days melted into each other, indistinct cycles of dreaming and waking. Eventually, he realised he had had to go in search of food and other supplies. He would emerge at night, donning a hood over the black mask he had fashioned out of some burnt material from his shack. With his skills, it was easy enough to steal bread and alcohol from the taverns in that seedy neighbourhood - the place was populated, mostly, by the scum of the earth … he fit right in.

His money was used for opium or morphine, when alcohol wasn't enough. He had brought a small bottle of the blessed fluid with him, and spent as long as he could in the bliss of drug-induced stupor, but it had run out all too quickly.

He had to escape from reality, for it was unbearable. He had _seen_ happiness – its exact form – in Christine. Those days he spent teaching her, privately daydreaming of the life he thought they could have together, were the most joyful he could remember. _Such beautiful dreams._ And then he had held her, smelled her scent … _kissed_ her. The memory of her touch still lingered on his lips, like a deep, comforting burn. All of that, only to realize that he couldn't keep her. To realize that he had been deluding himself the whole time, that she would never be his. His dreams of love, of grace, of peace, of passion, of music … of having her by his side as his angel, comforter and muse … of having her look at him with both awe and tenderness … a little living bride, all for him, just for him … all had evaporated as the castles he had built in the air came crashing down about his ears. The pain was too much; it lay like a physical weight on his chest.

In trying to remember exactly what he did during those months of fresh agony, he could only see a blur. He had killed some people, he knew that much. On his occasional trips along the dark, twisted alleyways, he had come across some men he did not like the look of, and some who had tried to rob him. He would usually throw them against the wall and choke them, sometimes with his strong hands, but usually using the lasso he had constructed out of scrap rope. If there were any bystanders, such action merely served as a warning to the unpleasant individual to be less unpleasant in future, and he eventually released them. But if there was no-one else around, he did not let go until they stopped breathing. He didn't know how many victims there had been. Most of the deaths had gone unnoticed anyway – they were likely murderers themselves, or else robbers, rapists … rubbish no-one wanted. Since he felt powerless in every other way, somehow the primal thrill that came with inflicting violence – knowing that he had control over life and death – soothed him, in his madness. As he killed, he imagined once again the time of the rosy hours of Mazenderan … where he had been someone of _importance_, right-hand man to the Shah himself. And sometimes in his pleasanter dreams he returned there, to Persia, and to Asia, to the places where he had been young. Where he had been innocent of the exquisite torture of love.

Looking back, he was quite certain that during those months he had attempted suicide a number of times as well, though for some reason he never succeeded. Perhaps he hadn't really wanted to. Although he would never admit it to himself, in the hidden corners of his mind, he felt there was something incredibly romantic and dramatic and … _noble_ … about suffering like this, dying for the love of a sublime woman. His mind came alive with pretty, childish fantasies. He half-imagined himself as Tristan or Lancelot from the English stories he had read … sometimes he was Romeo … or else one of those impassioned lovers from Greek mythology.

Oh, he could see it! At the end of all things, his suffering and torment would be laid at her feet … every tear he had shed for her, every cry he had made in the night … a burnt offering at her blessed altar. Then she would be there, smiling down on him. She would be sorry. She would accept his gift with infinite gratitude, kiss him again with lips like white fire, and ascend into heaven like the angel she was …

Although the rest of him descended into despair and darkness, his poet's heart – with all its romantic sensibilities, its twisted ideas of love – still beat strongly, making his drugged dreams both beautiful and terrible.

Finally, the day had come when his fancies were intruded upon, and the material world once again demanded his attention. The roll of bills he brought with him had dwindled into almost nothing. One night, he had looked at the money left in his hand – it was not enough to buy his usual bottle of morphine from the man who sold it, though it may perhaps purchase a smaller amount. Worth a try, though he did not know what he would do when he was absolutely destitute.

* * *

Erik opened his eyes and emerged from dozing to swat the memories away. It seemed so long ago … a different world to this cosy little room in Lyon … the creature he remembered no longer existed. 

It was with nothing but contempt for himself that he looked back on those days, and his time in the Opera House. Then, he had been an animal, living like an animal – unwisely, he had let his passions rule him, and bring him to the edge of ruin. Surviving by instinct and emotion. Love, desire, hatred and despair had ruled his life in swirling torrents of madness, and like a fool he had allowed them to direct his actions, letting them get the better of him. He knew now that such an existence was always doomed and was amazed at the naïveté he had displayed back then. Lying here in comfort, he felt decades older … and centuries wiser. He may still be an animal, we were all animals, but now he was an animal living like a _gentleman_, and he would not forget it.

He rose wearily and undressed with care, tossing each expensive item of clothing onto the couch. As he crossed the room, he caught a glimpse of his disfigured body in the mirror – his malformed face was riddled with shadows in unnatural areas, and his otherwise fit torso was marred by the lattice of thin scars which spoke of past abuse. With a wry smile, he nodded gracefully to the image as if it were an acquaintance in the street and then turned away. _Always a gentleman._

Later, as he lay under clean sheets, he concentrated on what he should do tomorrow, in order to keep other thoughts at bay. Of course he should go to Marseille, as he originally planned. From there he would take a boat to Italy, or somewhere else. He had vague ideas about visiting the East again, thinking that after being absent for such a long time, the danger to himself must now be considerably reduced. But in truth, it didn't matter where he went. At the start of his journey, his only thought had been to leave Paris.

He remembered Henri Baccour from the train and inhaled deeply, contemplating. _What about Nice?_ Obviously the poor man regretted his offer – Erik smirked a little, remembering how he had toyed with the fellow's nerves – but nevertheless, the invitation had been given and he was at liberty to accept it if he wished.

Of course, it would be a thoroughly idiotic thing to do. _Thoroughly_ idiotic. It would serve no purpose whatsoever, and only distract him from his course. The possibility only struck him with such force because it was so odd, coming just at that time.

Erik didn't believe himself to be superstitious, but when one has spent a great deal of time in the company of gypsies and in the mystical East, it is impossible to shake off all respect for signs and omens. Putting what he had read in the newspaper the previous morning together with this unexpected invitation, it certainly seemed like a great coincidence. Or more than a coincidence. Perhaps the fates were telling him something …

_No!_ He turned onto his side and squeezed his eyes shut, angry at himself for having slipped. He would not be so ridiculous. He had given up such beliefs at the same time he gave up fairy tales. A man like him … making decisions based on _signs_ and impulses … and possibilities he didn't care to contemplate anyway … rather than good, common sense. He knew better than that now. He was just tired, and that's why all these strange ideas had plagued him tonight.

Tomorrow he would head for Marseille, and then he would leave France behind.


	3. The Collector's Prize

_**A/N:** A rather short, but necessary chapter – sorry, no Erik. However, one of my favourite Erik scenes is coming up next chapter, so stay tuned. _

_Please review, I'm always grateful for your opinions_. :)

* * *

**3. The Collector's Prize**

Monsieur Baccour was glad to be home. His plump, blonde wife met him at the door, her pretty face pink and overjoyed.

"Henri! We did not expect you for a week or two, at least," she cooed, kissing him.

He smiled. "Well my love, things wrapped up sooner than I thought. I simply told them: 'Excuse me, Monsieurs, but my Vivienne will not be at _all_ pleased if I am not home in time for her big dinner party, so can we hurry it along?' And voila! It was done."

Vivienne giggled as he passed his arm around her corseted waist. She called a maid to take her husband's things upstairs, then they walked to the parlour with their arms around each other.

"So … I hope your trip was not too tiring," she said by way of routine, as they sat on the couch.

"Well actually, I enjoyed it more than I expected to. I made the acquaintance of a Baroness on my way from Lyon … Baroness Duvall. Most stimulating conversation." A sly grin spread over his face, his short moustache twitching.

"Baroness, you say?" Vivienne's eyes narrowed. "And what of her husband?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "No husband. From what I could gather, she was quite alone, except for her maid."

"I see." Visions of a beautiful widow crowded her mind. She pouted, ever so slightly, her little pink lips puckering forth. Henri hid a smile. He loved conjuring up that adorable expression on her face. "So, a great conversationalist, this Baroness Duvall? And I suppose she was young too?"

"Oh, quite!"

"Hmph," was her icy reply. She turned a little, in her seat.

"Though you must remember, sweet one, that at my age I do not consider anything under _eighty_ old …"

Vivienne turned back and laughed suddenly, giving him a playful shove. "Indeed! When I married you, you were already a doddering forty-year-old. But at fifty, dearest .. why, you are at death's door!" She rubbed his bald head, making him chuckle, then kissed him on the cheek. "Now tell me honestly, Henri."

"Honestly, my dear?" He tantalised her by holding his breath just a little too long before continuing. "She was seventy if she was a day … and she looked like … a turkey." He smirked as Vivienne made a face of mock outrage and tweaked his ear for his audacity. "Oh, but a very elegant turkey, I assure you."

She was still giggling. "I don't doubt it."

"But really, the old girl _was_ good company. The stories she had to tell! I was quite absorbed."

"Well in that case I hope you found out where she was staying, so we can invite her to the dinner next Friday. We haven't got a Baroness yet, and it would be quite a boon – especially one from out of town. Though it would take some rearranging, we already have two extra …"

Baccour laughed heartily. "Dearest! You sound like you're collecting rare insects, not throwing a dinner party!"

"Well, you never think of these things, so I must," she said irritably.

The Baccours were undoubtedly rich, and for that reason moved in the upper circles of Nice's society. Due to the city's relatively small size, there were hardly enough nobles to go around and populate all the balls and functions, so "society" could not afford to be choosy with its members . Nevertheless, the fact that their money was so _new_ annoyed Vivienne, who – even back when she was only a grocer's daughter – had always wanted a title. It was a sore point between her and her husband. Henri had inherited his wealth and business from his father, so while not strictly 'a self-made man', he was barely a generation away. But the fact had never bothered him – as long as everyone was civil and fair in their dealings with him, he was content. Purchasing a title struck the astute businessman as an almost sinful waste of money.

He sighed. "Alright, Viv. I'll find her address. But before I forget, I must tell you that I invited another person to call on us … I met him on the way from Paris to Lyon. I'm not sure when – or if – he will come, because his plans are not set, but we must be prepared." A wrinkle appeared on Baccour's forehead as he thought of the strange man on the train.

"Indeed? Who?" Her eyes lit up with interest, perhaps thinking that her husband had picked up yet another stray noble.

"A Monsieur Angebeau. Very distinguished sort of gentleman, I thought. Though I feel quite sorry for the poor fellow… he was recently in military service and received a most horrible injury. He has to go around with half his face covered in bandages while it heals." Henri was surprised that even now he could not suppress a shiver at the memory of Erik's eyes.

"Oh, that does sound dreadful!" Vivienne murmured, not seeing her husband's face as she went to the desk to retrieve a notepad and pencil. She began to scribble, rearranging the seating plan. "Very well, we shall have to keep an eye out for this unfortunate Monsieur Angebeau. Though I hope he does not turn up on the night of the dinner – we are stretched as it is, what with the Vicomte and his wife, and now this Baroness …"

Henri had been staring distractedly at the pattern on the sofa, when his wife's voice recalled him to attention with a sigh. "What was that, my love? We are to have a Vicomte too, are we? Even better. What an embarrassment of riches!"

"Oh yes, I thought I told you?" A triumphant smile spread across her face, oblivious to his sarcasm. "Marie called on me yesterday and asked if she could bring her friend's son and his wife. Apparently they are spending the winter here, and know very few people in town. They arrive the day before the dinner and we thought that a nice, low-key evening with all our friends would be a perfect introduction to society for them. Just think … a Vicomte …" Vivienne was in raptures.

"Yes, my dear," said Henri, patiently. "But who _are_ they?"

"Well, I don't really know much about them, but they must be _somebody_, because they are always in the society pages."

There was a certain Parisian newspaper she had begun to have delivered, and she hurried to the desk to retrieve the latest edition.

"Look," she pointed to the page. "There. Just a couple of days ago they were mentioned … the name is De Chagny."

Baccour read the notice:

"The Vicomte and Vicomtess De Chagny will also be leaving Paris for the winter, in search of warmer climes. The couple travel to Nice next week, in the hope that the warmth and sea air will improve the Vicomtess' delicate health. We wish them well."

* * *

_**A/N: **So…yes, Christine is going to be in this, eventually. But don't automatically assume E/C … though don't rule it out, either. They've both changed over the past four years, andit's all a bit complicated ...just saying, there's a long way to go yet. _

_Oh, and apologies for giving Henri and Viv a whole chapter to themselves – won't happen again – it's just that in my mind, they're so … cute. Couldn't help fleshing them out a bit. ;)_


	4. If You Can't Beat Them

_**A/N**: Thank you so much to all the lovely people who submitted reviews, and for being so encouraging! Do keep them coming, your feedback means a lot to me :) (oh, and phantomsangelofmusic – I'm very flattered you want me to teach you how to write, lol.)_

* * *

**4. If You Can't Beat Them …**

Erik was on a train to Marseille. He had taken pains to find an empty compartment, and now sat, eyes closed, soothed by the rhythmic rocking of the carriage. _Ca-chunk, ca-chunk, ca-chunk. _In his mind, he briefly imagined the green fields and houses streaking past outside, like an ever-changing, wind-whipped painting. Too much out there. At least with his eyes closed, he could control it and make everything … the whole world … still.

He had slept restlessly the previous night – there had been dreams, but the details had deserted him and he had simply awoken that morning with sweat on his brow and a lingering sense of terror. Now, as he hovered between sleeping and waking, images from his past once again invaded his consciousness, overpowering his will. He was back in the darkness.

* * *

It was night, and like a shadow he made his way down the narrow alleys to the tavern that the dealer frequented, a place he knew well. A rough wooden plank hung above the doorframe, and out of habit he paused for a moment to read the name of the establishment. _The Siren's Song_. Beneath the cloud of his despair, a part of him always chuckled at the bitter aptness of the title. Unfortunately, they hadn't managed to get the illustration right – the corner of the board was decorated with a _mermaid_, clumsily painted onto the worn, grooved surface. He looked up at the now-familiar image. The unevenness of the wood and exposure to the elements had distorted the sea-girl, so that her wavering outline and mottled colours seemed to mirror his own deformity. _A fine pair we make_, he thought, as he crossed the threshold.

The space inside was dim, with very few lanterns lit … probably for the comfort of its patrons, many of whom were sprawled across tables or floors, dead drunk. Dust lay placidly on furniture and people alike. In the grainy amber light, an oily-faced bartender leaned back on a stool, his feet on the counter, smoking a cigar and languidly flipping through a racy magazine. Quietly, Erik swept past it all. His soft cloak rippled about him, affording him some protection from the dirt and unpleasant odours that floated unabashedly throughout the room.

He found the man – Jacques was his name – at the usual place, seated near the back at a smoky table with four other ruffians. When he saw his customer arrive, Jacques rose with a grin and beckoned him to a corner.

"Pleasure to see you again, _Monsieur_," the thug intoned.

The strange man in the black cloak always made the dealer vaguely nervous, though he had never been outwardly threatening. The customer had never allowed anything more than the very tip of his chin to be seen beyond the depths of the hood, but Jacques thought he had once caught a glimpse of a black cloth mask. Perhaps in order to prove to himself that there was nothing to fear, he always acted in a slightly condescending way towards the stranger. Erik accepted this, never rising to the veiled challenge – the dealer was useful to him, and besides, their meeting-places were always public and he did not want to draw attention.

"Here," breathed Erik, holding out the last of his money. "That is all I can spare for the time being."

Jacques took the small bundle of notes and flipped through them. "Ah, I understand. But I am afraid it is not enough." He handed them back.

"You will give me _something_, Jacques," Erik hissed. "Do not try my patience."

"I would like to, Monsieur, I really would, since we are such good friends. But forgive me, it is impossible."

Erik's jaw tightened. "You are trying to twist something more out of me. I assure you, _Jacques_, this is all there is to be had tonight. You will get no more. It is this or nothing." He growled, leaning in slightly so that he could look down at the barrel-chested brute.

Jacques merely shifted his position and adjusted his coat with a haughty air. "Well then it appears we will _both_ be leaving with nothing tonight, Monsieur." He moved to step away.

Suddenly, Erik's arm shot out and his powerful hand pinned the man's throat to the wall. Jacques made a gurgling sound, his arms flailing. The strong grip slowly tightened, the man's face becoming redder every second … deep within his hood, Erik's teeth were bared, exposed by a lip that was curled in exertion. He breathed hard.

Abruptly, a cry from across the room pierced his concentration. Jacques' friends had realized what was going on, and were thundering towards the corner. In a second, they had Erik by the arms, and the dealer was doubled over, hands on his knees, spluttering and wheezing. Jacques' men began cursing, and two held Erik's arms apart as a third repeatedly punched him in the stomach. Once or twice the men almost lost their grip on him as he struggled, but Erik was tired and weak from a lack of food, and the adrenalin brought on by his anger only lasted so long. He soon began to go limp. The other patrons of the tavern glanced over, but knew better than to interfere in private matters … they continued with their drinks, and the bartender snorted.

Eventually Jacques, still bent over, could be heard muttering something. The puncher stopped and turned to his leader.

"What was that, boss?"

Jacques coughed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and unsteadily returned to a standing position.

"I _said_ … stop."

There was an awkward silence.

"Let him go."

The men released Erik's arms, and he swayed dangerously before regaining his balance and standing. Although it felt as if his stomach had caved in, he resolutely kept his hands in fists by his sides, resisting the urge to cover his abdomen with his forearms and curl up. He waited. There was no point running – he was surrounded by the five of them, with no visible means of egress. Jacques eyed his captive for a long moment … the face was still obscured by the heavy hood. Slowly, the dealer's gaze travelled to the floor, and his dirty finger pointed at something there. It was a piece of parchment which had lain unnoticed by all except Jacques during the scuffle. Slightly crumpled and folded over, only someone in his bent position could have seen what was on it.

"Pick it up." The order was obviously directed at Erik, at whom the leader was once again staring. However, the cloaked figure made no movement.

"_Pick_ it up," he repeated, louder.

Erik was stone.

Finally, still pointing, and without taking his eyes off Erik, Jacques softened his voice: "Gaspard, pick it up."

The fourth man … only a boy, really, who had done very little until now … came forward and picked up the parchment, handing it to Jacques. Despite themselves, all the members of his gang craned their necks curiously to see what was written on it.

But it wasn't writing. It was a sketch. Before them, was a beautiful, mellow drawing of the Opera Populaire's exterior. Although it was an inanimate building, the artist had infused its lines with such gentle affection and elegance that it was more moving than any sentimental image of children or animals. The sketch was accurate in every detail, and the shading so complex and realistic it looked as if the sun was peering down at the building now and then, between shifting clouds. Truly, the observers would not have been surprised if the tiny people and horses in the street started moving of their own accord.

Erik cursed under his breath – it must have fallen out of his pocket. It was an old drawing he had put there the other day, with a vague notion of selling it for a few coins at a book stall, or some such place. However, he had not yet been able to steel himself enough to go outside during daylight.

Jacques looked up first. "Did you make this, Monsieur?"

Erik was silent.

"Speak, for we shall not leave until I know."

There was a pause. "I did," Erik spat. He was breathing heavily again, the anger in his voice barely controlled.

"Well, it is very fine," said Jacques, looking at it again with a tilt of his head and the air of a connoisseur. He was apparently oblivious to the tone of the captive's reply. "You are an artist, then?"

"I am nothing."

Jacques shrugged his shoulders. "Just as you please." He handed the paper to one of his men and strode over to Erik, heels clicking on the wooden floorboards. "But tell me: are you as good with paint as you are with charcoal?"

Erik kept his head bent and his voice low. "I have used paint, on occasion."

"And what of other media? Have you any talent for, say, sculpting, and things like that?"

"I have turned my hand that way before."

"Excellent." Jacques looked pleased. He shot his gang a significant glance. "In that case, Monsieur, I have a proposition for you."

* * *

Erik was awoken with a jolt as the train passed over a particularly bumpy patch of track. He looked around at the still-empty compartment, glad that no-one had caught him sleeping.

He sighed, and pulled himself up into a more alert position. He hated sleep, just as he hated the act of travelling – both resulted in the surrender of one's control in some way. When travelling, all he could do was sit still and wait patiently for the driver to deliver him to his destination. He had little command over how that time was spent – he was a prisoner of his surroundings, and prey to any unpleasant features thereof. In this carriage, such 'unpleasant features' included the hideous green and red carpet under his feet, the constant rattling of the window pane and the musty scent of the passengers who had preceded him. He experienced all these things with distaste, but would not escape them until he reached his station.

Ah … but sleep … sleep was even worse. In addition to surrendering control over his body – which in itself was alarming – he had to surrender control over his thoughts. In that state, he became a prisoner of his own mind … and that had _many_ more unpleasant features than this ridiculous train compartment.

He checked his watch. Another two hours, at least.

* * *


	5. In the De Chagny House I

_**A/N**: Aiya Quackform – sorry to confuse you. Just to clarify, yes, the tavern actually did happen …when a character is dreaming, believe me, you'll know. ;) _

_allegratree – you must have read my mind, because I was just planning to thank everyone for the thoughtfulness and quality of their reviews. You're absolutely right, I don't care (very :P) much about the review count, I'm just pleased that the people following my story are really appreciating it. (oh, btw, you may be right about the bar tender – doggone it! – I hadn't even thought of that, but now the image is in my head, lol.) _

_atheshar – just wanted to say thanks for your comments yet again. _

_Anyway thank you to all my reviewers, for taking the time to write those wonderful, insightful reviews I enjoy so much. You really motivate me to write faster. :) Please don't stop. And to anyone else who hasn't reviewed yet – feel free to jump in any time! ;)_

_Okay, we have to leave Erik for just a little while to catch up with some … other … people. The next three chapters are actually one really one long one that got out of hand. I'll post the next two chapters together, because I don't want them to be read separately. Third will come soon._

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**5. In the De Chagny House (I)**

The De Chagny house was abuzz, preparing for the departure of the Master and Mistress. The Vicomte had only bought the house in Nice recently, so while it was furnished, it did not yet contain any of the other things so necessary for running a household. They would have send some initial items on ahead, and purchase the rest when they arrived. There were linens to be sorted through, china and cutlery to be selected, a few things necessary for the staff to do their work – pots, pans, and the like – various decorative items the Mistress wanted … not to mention the couple's wardrobe and personal effects. All would have to be ready.

Mathilde was exhausted. She rubbed her chapped, red hands together and glanced at the clock in the hallway – one o'clock. _Already_! She leant against the side table for a minute to catch her breath, making a small, frustrated gesture at the clock. The machine was apparently not amused … it ticked on relentlessly, unsympathetic and undisturbed by the long list of chores she had on her mind. She dropped her head to gather her thoughts. _Let's see now. _She would have to see to the glassware soon, and the books (the Master should have finished sorting by now) … the vase from the parlour would be going, she'd have to wrap that carefully herself … oh, and the pillowcases … she had almost forgotten those … they needed bleaching. But first … there was still time to check on Madame. She might as well bring the medicine in too, for the lady would probably not take it otherwise. She sighed a little, then with a decisive nod she stood, dusted her apron off with a flick of her hand ascended the grand stairs, taking them two at a time, her young, strong body sweeping upwards with ease. On the way, she passed one of the cleaning girls, who was descending with a bucket and a rag. Mathilde made her stop for a moment, looking at her uniform with a critical eye - quickly, she adjusted the girl's cap so that it sat in the proper position, then, satisfied, allowed her to continue on her way.

Mathilde had come from the country to take up work as Christine's personal maid … what was it? Almost four years ago now, shortly after they had married. Nowadays, her work seemed to extend well beyond her lady's care, to directing the lesser servants and seeing to the house in general. She didn't mind this – Madame Rennard, the official housekeeper, was a dear woman, but had become somewhat forgetful with age, so Mathilde was tacitly acknowledged as the authority on most domestic matters ...a responsibility which she handled well. She was friendly with all the servants, as well as her employers - they really were a lovely pair, especially for nobles. She counted herself lucky that she didn't have some witch of a Mistress like her friend Brigitte, who worked for a Marquess and was shrieked at night and day until her ears bled.

From the very beginning, her first day, Christine had instructed that Mathilde address her as a friend, using her given name. The maid had been uncomfortable, and at first refused flat out. This was her first position as a proper lady's maid, and she wanted so much to do things correctly, the right way …

"_Oh you are stubborn, Mathilde!" Christine had rebuked with a smile. Her teeth peered out from between her lips, glowing white._

"_I'm sorry Madame, but I just don't think it is correct."_

"_Well it was probably incorrect of Raoul to marry a dancer, but he did anyway!" Her hazel eyes sparkled as she took the maid's arm and walked with her about the room. "Come now, you must understand … I'd feel nervous if you were to call me 'Madame' all the time. You know, I used to spend all day, every day with girls my age when I lived –" she hesitated slightly " – when I was training, and it will be so lonely not having them with me." _

_In response to the maid's continuing silence, the Vicomtess assumed an expression of mock-severity that was laughably incongruous with her soft, young features. "Mathilde, if you do not agree to call me by my real name, I'm afraid I shall have to make you execute your duties wearing a _tutu_ in order to cheer me up." She put her hands on her hips and frowned. " I'm sorry, but it is the only thing that would console me." _

_Mathilde had been brought up with the rules of etiquette firmly drilled into her head by her mother, who had been a housekeeper, but Christine's words struck her with unbounded fear. She knew nothing about this woman yet …she could be some sort of eccentric, and the tutu may be more than an idle threat. The maid had heard of such things going on in aristocratic houses. "Very well … Christine," she said grudgingly._

_At the sound of the name, the Vicomtess had clapped her hands laughingly and hugged the maid, who couldn't help but smile, her fears allayed. Sweet girl. _

At the top of the stairs, Mathilde sighed again. Even though Christine was actually a little older than herself, there was something about the lady that invariably aroused a maternal instinct. The maid remembered the first few months she had been in service. They had been somewhat trying … alternating periods of radiant sunlight and rain. There had times when the Mistress was happy and carefree – at such times the entire household was happy. The Master too. When his wife was in good spirits – whether it be playful and blithe, or tranquil and happily contented – he seemed to glow with joy. Those were the best of times.

But back in those days, the young Vicomtess could also be quite emotional. Mathilde would often come across her weeping over the smallest things: she hadn't been able to find Raoul's cravat, she didn't know what she should be serving at a dinner party, she had said something silly in front of the Marquess. At such times, Raoul and the maid would do their best to calm her, and eventually the tears would stop. Certainly her reactions seemed disproportionate to the problems … but Mathilde imagined how difficult it must be for a girl only a little older than herself to settle into an elevated social position. A wife, a Vicomtess. Furthermore, there had been that scandal surrounding the couple's marriage – Mathilde knew only as much as she had read in the papers, and even that she took with a pinch of salt … but whatever the true story was, it definitely didn't make things easier on the poor girl.

After a while, things had calmed down. The crying stopped, the house settled into a rhythm, they worked together contentedly. The periods of sunshine extended, the rain blew away – Raoul and his wife seemed happy, and from what Mathilde could gather, the pair had become a popular society couple. The guest list of any De Chagny dinner party certainly suggested so. The only thing to mar the picture was Christine's delicate health – she was prone to cough and chest problems – and her 'spells'.

These 'spells' came and went infrequently, and the Mistress brushed them off as nothing. During these times, she simply became very quiet and pensive – sometimes sitting in the same chair for hours on end, staring out a window, or into a fire, with such intensity it was difficult to get her attention. And when she did attempt a task, she would do it distractedly and clumsily … apologizing profusely when she broke something. Such periods would last anywhere from a few hours to a day or two, and the time would always be slightly tense for the house. They all worried about the Mistress – because, as Madame Rennard said, "it's not natural".

In fact, Christine had had a short spell just yesterday, in the morning. They seemed to have become more frequent over the last few months, as her health became worse … perhaps the stress of preparing for the trip also had a hand in it. While yesterday she appeared to recover by evening – enough, anyway, to play a spirited game of cards with her husband (the pair of them giggling and teasing each other like a couple of teenagers) – this morning she had complained of a bad night's sleep, and had not yet emerged from her bedroom.

Of course, the Master was concerned whenever she went into one of her states. In the early days, he had begged her to tell him what was wrong, but she insisted she was fine, further discussion merely descending into arguments, which they were always careful to keep behind closed doors, away from the servants. Nowadays he just seemed to deal with it as best he could, realising that the best thing to do was let her come back on her own.

As the maid passed the door to the Raoul's study on her way to Christine's room, she tapped lightly and waited. An amused smile appeared on her face as she heard sudden scuffling movements in the room behind the dark wood. Then, there was a loud bang and a thud, as if something had been dropped on the floorboards ... o_oh, I hope that didn't scratch the polish, _was her first thought. She listened carefully for some moments and could have sworn she heard some soft cursing within the room ...however, with a chuckle, she decided to put it down to her imagination. Finally, the Master of the house opened the door - he was panting slightly and cradling an armful of books, with a sheepish look on his face.

"I know. I _know_. Mathilde … yes … I'm doing them _right_ now. I give you my word – an hour, no more!" He grinned, his face settling into pleasant lines, and quickly returned to the desk, as if to prove his industriousness. It was piled with books and half-filled boxes. He put the bundle of volumes he was carrying on the table, and began to read the spines, putting some into one of the open boxes and leaving others.

Mathilde rested against the doorframe and smiled even more widely, crossing her arms. "Certainly. Whatever you say, Monsieur … though you do realise you used those exact words yesterday?"

"Ah, but the difference is that I mean them this time." He looked up with a smirk and flashed his eyebrows. "I was busy yesterday."

"Playing cards with Madame doesn't count," the maid teased.

Raoul laughed as he continued his work. "Oh indeed? I'll have you know that was a very important business transaction. She won fifty francs from me last night!" Though he continued to smile, a serious expression flitted across his face for a moment then was gone. Mathilde noticed this and understood. The game_ had_ been important; it had helped bring Christine back from wherever she was … wherever she had been in her mind, as she sat by the fire.

"I suppose now you're off to scold her too." His joking face had returned. "Well don't spare her! She deserves a good talking to, I am convinced she cheated!"

Mathilde gave a quick smile and then spoke more seriously, a tiny wrinkle appearing between her brows. She fiddled with her apron. "Actually, Monsieur, I think she may be asleep, she has not been down today. This morning she told me she did not rest well last night."

Raoul frowned. He had had to leave early that morning to attend to some errands, and had been busy since. Christine had been asleep when he left their room, but as he kissed her forehead, he had noted the troubled expression on her face.

"Oh. Well when she gets up, tell her to come here and give me a hand with these books. She'll have to choose some too."

Mathilde shook her head, her lips curving upward once more. "Not likely, Monsieur, I'm afraid the task is all yours. She still has her gowns and clothing to attend to, and they are far more important than your books!" She reached for the door handle and began pulling it closed. "Besides, it's only going to take you an hour, isn't it?" Cheekily, she shut the door and left.

* * *


	6. In the De Chagny House II

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* * *

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**6. In the De Chagny House (II)**

After Mathilde had gone, the smile disappeared from Raoul's face and he crawled into an armchair. The sun came slanting in through the window and he watched specks of dust dance in the golden shaft. Experimentally, he let a puff of air escape his lips. The flecks spun tumultuously, following the strong, violent currents of his breath. He lowered his head and let his chin rest on his chest.

What he wouldn't give to know. _Know, _once and for all what went on her mind. He loved her so much … why wasn't it enough? He was sure that this was not quite normal in a marriage – or at least, his idea of marriage.

When all was well, he and Christine were _so_ _happy_. There was so much laughter in the house; they were always laughing, at anything and everything. And when they were quiet … when he wrapped his arms around her small frame, savouring her softness, her pliancy … she would look into his eyes and he could feel her reading his soul, plunging into him. But those eyes – they were like a trick mirror, for they only worked one way. When he looked into the darkness of her, the gold-flecked brown of her irises, he only found himself tangled up, confused.

He didn't like her spells. Those times when she seemed to drift off and belong to another world altogether, one that he couldn't access. He wasn't sure he didn't prefer the outright weeping of her early days to this strangeness … at least the crying he had understood, at least then he had been able to do something to soothe her and make her happy. She had always clung to him, desperately, as the tears fell out of her – although he of course didn't like to see her cry, the sensation had been pleasant.

That sort of thing hadn't happened for years, now. She rarely wept … she just disappeared into herself for a while, and then returned, as if nothing had happened. Although when she became herself again she seemed the same as she ever was, sweet and loving and playful, the spells disturbed him.

Once, in the early on, he had asked her what she thought about while in one of her spells.

"_I don't know, Raoul. Really I don't." She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead with her fingers._

_He sat on the armrest of her chair. "But how can that be, dearest? You sat there from morning to night today. Surely something must have crossed your mind." He spoke soothingly, as one does to a puzzled child, stretching an arm across her shoulders and nuzzling her chestnut curls with his lips._

"_I've just been feeling so very tired lately," she breathed, with a frustrated groan. "But I will try very hard to think. There must be things in my mind, mustn't there? When I sit like that. I think there are some things. Well, maybe. But they're all …confused." _

"_Well tell me about them, my love. Perhaps we can work them out together." He toyed with her slim fingers._

"_I don't know …It's difficult. I can't quite recall …" She trailed off, and there was a pause. _

"_Do you …think about …him?" Raoul said it lightly, and continued to watch his fingers as he entwined them with hers._

_Her body stiffened, a delicate frost appearing to creep over her from her toes to her head. She turned to look him in the face, at the blue eyes that wouldn't meet hers. She narrowed her gaze, the lashes almost coming together over glinting hazel eyes. Her full lips twisted – ever so slowly – into an almost sour curve. _

_Her voice was soft and low. "Think about who, Raoul?" _

_He didn't reply._

"_Do tell me, _dearest_, to whom are you referring?" She almost hissed the words._

_He finally looked up and regarded her from beneath his brows "You know who I'm talking about, Christine."_

"_Then say his name."_

"_What?"_

"_Say his name."_

"_Oh for God's sake," her husband cried as he rose and paced restlessly about the room, "the thing doesn't even have a name, only titles! The Phantom of the Opera. The Opera Ghost. That madman. That's who I'm talking about. There, are you satisfied?" He rested against the mantle, exhaling loudly._

"_You needn't spit the words out with so much contempt, Raoul." The colour rose in her face and her eyes burned. "He could have killed you down there, you know. But he let us go." Her usually sweet voice came out like twisted wire._

_Raoul uttered a sarcastic, disbelieving laugh and slapped a hand to his forehead. "Oh! Of course! I'd quite forgotten. After murdering two people, attempting to kill me, destroying the Opera House and kidnapping you, he – in his great generosity – decided to let us go! And only, I might add, after you were forced to kiss the creature. Where _are_ my manners? Tell me, do you think it is too late to send a thank-you note?" Christine stood angrily and strode into the adjoining room. Raoul followed. "Or what about a fruit basket, my dear? Do you think he would like that?"_

_She turned around to face him. "Stop it." There was a warning in her voice, and hard lines around her mouth. "Who are you to mock him so cruelly? We cannot begin to imagine his suffering. It's not our place to…"_

"_I see. So it's 'judge not lest ye be judged', is it?" Raoul held his palms up and shook his head with a defeated air. "Very well."_

_There was a pause, then Christine began to speak in a measured voice . "You know, not everything in the world is his fault. You cannot keep blaming him when things go badly with me, and us…"_

"_I do not …" _

"_Yes you do, Raoul." She spoke softly, with conviction. "I see it in your eyes. Whenever there is a coolness between us, whenever I am tired or irritable or unreasonable – even when I feel a little ill and you decide to call the doctor – I can see it. Anger and suspicion. Suspicion … that he has done something to me, that somehow he is still trying to harm us." _

_Raoul looked at her silently for a moment before whispering: "And would I not be right?" His voice was thick, as the question caught on a sob in his throat._

_She regarded him for a long minute, then floated back across the room with a look of compassion, taking his hand in both her own. Her eyes met his squarely. "No. No you wouldn't be right, dearest." She tilted her head. "You must understand that the defects are mine … all mine. Defects in my character – my impatience, my selfishness – and in my body, which is not as strong as I would wish. Don't make excuses for me. Don't make him a scapegoat for my failings – he has his own burdens, and should not be made to shoulder the weight of mine too."_

"_Oh Christine," Raoul gripped her in a tight embrace. "I love you. You know that … all of you …no matter what. But … I don't know why I dwell on it so …"_

_Gently, she pulled herself away and stood before him. " Let's end this. You asked if I thought about him while I was sitting by the window today. The truth is I don't know. My mind is sometimes confused. I'm not sure, perhaps I did, perhaps not. But if I did, my thoughts on him would not have been the bitter … poisonous … ones you seem to possess. All I remember is a poor, unfortunate man and my heart has no room for anything but pity. Raoul" – she looked at him pleadingly, her hand to his cheek – " we are free, we are safe and we are together. And we are happy. Isn't that enough? He is just a memory, he has no power over me."_

_He was as still as stone for some minutes, staring at her with large, moist eyes, his lips parted. Then in one large motion, Raoul encircled her rigid body in an awkward hug. "Oh, forgive me, darling," he murmured into her neck. She whispered something and stroked his hair soothingly as they stood together, lightly rocking to and fro. But when he began to kiss her, she drew away softly and looked at his handsome, penitent face. In her eyes there was an odd expression of confusion._

"_Uh …I'm sorry dearest, I'm just feeling a little faint …" she left the room and walked slowly towards the staircase, her hand to her forehead again._

"_Oh of course!" A look of deep concern came to Raoul's face as he helped her up the stairs. "I'm a brute …straining your nerves like that. I am so sorry."_

_She patted his arm reassuringly as he led her to her dressing room. _

That scene had occurred some two or three years ago, and they had never spoken openly of it since. He had to admit there had been truth in what she said – he _was_ blaming the Phantom for things, things which probably had nothing to do with him. Though he still worried about it. It was just that occasionally, there would be something in the way she spoke, or her look, that he didn't understand, but that immediately made his mind fly back to that shadow under the Opera House. But it was only his imagination, he knew that now.

That vile, murderous creature. Somehow, she _pitied_ him. That was a woman, for you … all compassion, no perspective … it would be a blessing to be able to think like that. It was something he loved about Christine, but Raoul himself could summon no such charitable feelings towards the villain. He recognised the illogicality of it all – the ghost was gone, dead, probably, and everything that had happened was in the past. Christine was the sensible one. Her purity, her goodness, her compassion, had healed her of the wounds the Phantom had caused. On the other hand, Raoul's own, infinitely inferior and more vengeful spirit made the memories fester, and that's where the suspicion came from. He couldn't help it. It may be crazy, but some part of him still blamed the madman for the flaws in their marriage, to some degree.

And Christine, the darling, liked to blame herself … which was, of course, ridiculous.

But there was one person whom no-one had yet blamed, though perhaps they should have. Himself. It was true that sometimes he didn't understand her, maybe it was his own fault. Perhaps he was doing something wrong? He didn't know what, but it preyed upon him sometimes. Terribly. What was he doing? What could he do? He had tried to speak to Christine about it a couple of times, but she always insisted that nothing was his fault. Maybe this was true, or maybe she just didn't recognise it, whatever it was.

With a sigh, Raoul roused himself from his thoughts and went back to the desk. He had better finish packing the books … knowing Mathilde, she would be back in an hour on the dot.

* * *

_**A/N: **Okay, two things to remember before judging Christine's characterisation. (1) Only flashbacks, so far, (2) We've only seen her through the eyes of others, we haven't gotten inside her head yet. This is deliberate. Same goes for next chapter. Alright then - have at it! What do you think?_


	7. In the De Chagny House III

_**A/N: **Thanks for your comments! I must admit I have an affection for all the characters, especially the supporting cast …I take my time with them because I think when you've got really dark and passionate elements, you need those outsiders there, for balance. Think about it – who was narrating in Wuthering Heights? (One more thing, atheshar – Gosh, I love that you 'get' it! However, I would hesitate to call it a 'love triangle' just yet …we haven't really seen either Christine's or Erik's current perspective on the issue. So far. It may turn out to be even a bit more tangled than you suppose ;) ) _

_And in response to your question, Aiya Quackform: I have a draft up to chapter 20, but it definitely doesn't end there – I have a little case of writer's block, which I'm working to dispel. So, I've been able to post quickly because I'm really just revising the drafts I already have – although some chapters changed quite a bit in the process (5 and 6, for example, were originally one shorter chapter). Unfortunately, I'm afraid the chapter-a-day schedule will have to be sacrificed verrrrry soon. As in, now. I've had some free time lately, but real life is beginning to intrude (as it always does, so rudely. Tsk tsk). _

_Alright, one more chapter of our kitchen-sink drama – it may seem unnecessary right now, but just think of it as laying some foundations for Christine's character (and in case it isn't clear, the flashback here follows right on from the last). After this, it's back to Erik. Not to be flippant about it, but …a cookie for you if you can guess what the tavern incident led to, before the next chapter is posted. _

_Please review. Every single one makes me happy! And if you do, I promise to shut up and make my author's notes shorter in future. :) _

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**7. In the De Chagny House (III)**

Mathilde stopped in front of the medicine cabinet now, and began arranging Christine's remedies on a tray. There were more than there used to be.

Less than a year into her marriage, the girl had been diagnosed as having a problem with one of her lungs. It actually didn't bother her much on the whole … after leaving the Opera, she had stopped singing altogether anyway, in both public and private, and since she remained as lovely as ever, the only external hint of the illness was an occasional short coughing fit. However, the previous winter had been a bad one for her, and over the past year they had gradually become more frequent. The illness still remained fairly manageable, but the doctor had warned that if the prescribed treatments were not maintained, her condition would deteriorate.

Mathilde was glad this warning had been given, because frankly, Christine needed it. This was the first time she had been persuaded to leave Paris for the winter – as she hated the idea of being parted from her friends, she had only conceded on doctor's orders. In the early days, she had been very lax about her health, barely giving a thought to her illness. In fact, even on the day she had had a particularly bad argument with her husband – even after the Master said she admitted to feeling faint, which she rarely did – the girl had refused to take her elixir as she undressed before bed.

"_I can't. Take it away please, Mathilde." Seated at her dressing table, she pushed the little tray away from her in disgust._

_Her maid stood defiantly, rooted to the ground. "Christine, you know you must take it."_

"_No, really, I'm fine. I don't need it."_

"_But the Master told me you were feeling faint earlier."_

"_Ah," she said as she coloured. "Well yes I did say that. But I am better now." She pushed the tray even further away._

_Mathilde sighed as she collected the medicine in order to take it back to the cupboard._

"_He will not be happy about this."_

_Christine looked up suddenly. "Oh, don't tell him, please. I don't want to start another battle, not today," she sighed. "He thinks … he thinks I've already taken it. I told him I took it before supper." She regarded the maid humbly, but with a hint of defiance, like a schoolgirl who has just said something insulting to the Headmistress._

_Mathilde shot her a stern look as she picked up the tray._

"_Well! It is one thing for a woman to lie to her husband, but quite another for a servant to lie to her Master. Oh Christine! The moral dilemmas you thrust upon me!" The Vicomtess hung her head with appropriate guilt before looking up apologetically, so Mathilde rewarded her with a sly wink as she exited the room to put away the medicine._

_She thought this would be the end of the matter, but when she returned a few minutes later, Christine still had a serious and thoughtful expression on her face. The maid kneeled by her, concerned._

"_Christine – are you alright? I was only making fun …"_

_Suddenly, the Vicomtess grabbed Mathilde's arm. There was an almost desperate look in her bright brown eyes, as she searched her friend's face. The lip trembled just a little._

"_So …so what you were saying before, Mattie. You don't think it is such a horrible sin for a woman to lie to her husband?"_

_When the question registered, Mathilde groaned inwardly. Now she would have to backtrack. "Oh I didn't really mean it that way. Always, where matters of health are concerned …"_

"_They're not." Christine cut her short. _

"_Oh." Mathilde was a little taken aback, and the troubled face of her Mistress was beginning to worry her. "Well what is it then, Christine?"_

_The girl hesitated, her eyes on the patterned rug. _

"_You have been lying to the Master about something?" Mathilde urged. Her heart was thumping, and she was curious in spite of herself. What sort of crisis could this be? Perhaps some things she had read in the paper were true? Was she about to hear some kind of confession? About them? _

"_Oh I don't know," Christine sighed. "Perhaps it wasn't lying, exactly. Or maybe it was. Maybe I'm just so good at it now, I didn't notice I was doing it." After these cryptic statements, she turned again to Mathilde with tremulous eyes. Her cheeks were flushed. "All I know is that I felt like I was on the stage again. I knew everything he wanted to hear, and it all fell so easily from my tongue it frightened me."_

_The maid gave her a searching look. "Well I suppose the question then is whether or not the things you told him were true."_

_Christine seemed plagued with indecision yet again. "Yes …no … I don't know. I think so … I hope so …" She fell silent and played with a little figurine on the table for a while. It was ballerina, which she pirouetted gently, the tip of her finger directing the dancer's dainty foot. She stared intently at the frozen folds of the doll's tutu for a minute, then whispered, more to herself than anyone else. "It all just … scares me, sometimes. So much. The … darkness. Always. You can't know." Her voice was low and strange, her eyes wide, velvet black. "I just ...didn't want him to … to …" She paused, and Mathilde held her breath. Christine's eyelids trembled a little … they fluttered …and then she blinked, looking up. She looked around, slightly confused, then seeming to remember herself, she swallowed. Her voice returned._

_"Oh Mattie, what if I did lie?" _

_Mathilde was bewildered. She exhaled and meditated for a moment, doing her best to formulate a judicious response. Like a restless child, Christine couldn't seem to keep still, toying with the frills on her wrap until she whispered: "Tell me. Would I be a terrible person?" Her face bore an expression of innocent concern. Mathilde shook her head slowly and grasped the girl's hands, squeezing them. _

"_You could never be terrible, my dear Christine." _

_The Vicomtess started to say something, but the maid interrupted. _

"_Now listen." Mathilde propped the girl up in front of her, talking to her earnestly, face to face. "I don't know anything about being a wife, but I do know that when people care about each other, they often do things that may seem wrong, but they do them for the right reasons. To my mind, the reason always counts."_

_Christine was quiet and for a few moments appeared to be lost in thought. Her eyes focused absently on her lap, where her little white hands lay against the rich silk of her gown. Mathilde watched as she twirled her wedding ring about her finger. Finally, the lady took a calm breath. She looked up, her lips set in a gentle smile._

"_Of course you are right … dear, wise Mattie … you always are."_

_One corner of Mathilde's mouth twitched upwards. "Just not when I make you take your medicine, eh?" She teased in gentle tones._

_Christine laughed a little, and her tense face relaxed slightly. Then she spoke, reassured. "Yes, I was right to do it. I did it for him."_

At the memory, Mathilde knitted her brows. Sometimes the Mistress puzzled her so. That particular conversation had occurred two or more years ago, and there hadn't been a repeat since, however, she didn't understand Christine any better now than she did then. At times, the lady seemed like such a child, with her many pretty ways … but then she would say or do something so unexpected … Mathilde suspected there was more to her than perhaps even Christine herself knew.

Finally, she reached the girl's door with the tray of medicines and knocked.

"Come in." She heard the words faintly; they were followed by a short cough.

The maid entered. Christine was sitting up in bed, doing some needlework. Lately, Mathilde was always surprised at how thin and drawn her Mistress appeared – she always looked just a bit worse than anticipated. With her hair flowing around her, she was still beautiful … though the loss of some weight had given her face a more womanly and less girlish appearance. The pink of her lips and cheeks was fading, and observing this, Mathilde was once again grateful that they would be spending the winter in a warmer place.

"Hello Mattie!" Christine greeted her with a valiantly cheerful grin, her voice was vibrant and clear. "I haven't seen you since morning. I suppose you've been terribly busy with sorting everything out, haven't you?"

The maid put the tray down on a side table as she rummaged around for a handkerchief.

"Oh, yes I've had quite a few things to do. But don't you worry. Everything will be prepared."

Christine sighed. "You're a treasure." She put down her work, an embarrassed smile creeping over her face. "I expect I look like a lazy old thing, lying here when everyone else is so busy. Really, when I got up I _did_ start sorting out my gowns … then I just … it's not one of the good days." She finished quietly and coughed a little.

"Never mind about the packing just now … you take care of yourself." Mathilde brought the tray over. "Here, take your medicines."

Christine pulled a face. "Well, I suppose I had better." She chatted lightly as she poured one of the concoctions out onto a spoon. "But you'd think something so good for you would taste better, wouldn't you?" She swallowed a dose and prepared the next, continuing the thought. "Ah, but I guess that's not always the way. Sometimes the best things in the world are bitter. Not everything can be sweet … we'd all end up like Luc, poor thing!" Luc was the stable boy, who – due do his penchant for caramels and marzipan – had had a tooth pulled the other day and was still in agonies.

Mathilde didn't listen to her talk; she was concentrating on keeping track of which medicines were being taken and ticking off a mental checklist. Finally, after elixirs, pills and ointment, Christine made ready to lie down again.

"Just a minute – you forgot the expectorant."

Christine grimaced. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice. That one's the worst of all. And it always gives me a pain in my side."

"But it's the most important! Come now," the maid coaxed. "It will make you feel better."

"I know," she muttered. She lifted the small cup as if in toast. "Well, here's to it tasting better in our new holiday house."


	8. Vinci

_**A/N: **Thanks for the review, atheshar. It honestly made my day. Ah, yes. Stories ... stories are like onions. :)_

_So, back to Erik for quite a while now. I'm not sure what everyone will think of this, but please, please tell me! Even if you hate it. I'm a big girl, I can take it. _

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**8. Vinci**

Marseille. Another hotel room. At least this one had a window overlooking the water, which was a deep shade of grey today, mirroring the sky.

Erik sat by the open window was he had done every day for the past week, a little way back, shielding his face with the curtain. He stared absently at the port below him – it was eternally busy with comings and goings; strange vessels arriving from and bound for exotic harbours, foreign mystery still clinging to their ropes.

For some reason, his eyes were drawn to the sails and intricate mazes of rigging that adorned the ships; he traced their outlines with his gaze, running over the calculated folds and tangles which the sailors manipulated with ease. The images he saw reminded him of something … something ... . Eventually, he realised that they resembled the canvas backdrops and pulley systems he had slunk between, for so many years, back at the Opera House ... yes, that was it - though of course, that had always been in the dark, not out in the open, like this.

Calmly, he looked away.

High above, flags beat and twisted themselves noisily in the restless wind; the gulls seemed uneasy, their cries swallowed up by the dense clouds overhead. As he breathed in, he could detect the earthy aroma of imminent rain, carried into the room on waves of rich, salty, sea air. The air also ushered in other smells … fish, some vegetables perhaps, animals … and some more obscure scents that at he may have been able to identify once, but the names of which escaped him now.

In the street below, people milled about near the wharves, registering as flashes of texture and colour. Fishermen with coarse clothes and wiry beards, sinewy-armed sailors and their dark, leather skin. There were ragged vendors, gesticulating wildly in the hope of catching some passing business, and dirty-faced children who had skipped school in order to play marbles in the street. One little boy was crying because his prize cat's-eye had rolled over the edge of the stones and _down_, _down_, _down_ into the depths of the sea. Further on, merchants haggled over silk and spices while dockworkers shouted to each other in broad, lazy tones.

The sights and sounds of humanity rose and melded with the lapping of the waves, and the sighing of the wind, and the calling of the birds. Together, it all seemed to form a strange, chaotic sort of symphony, which pulsed through the ether. Erik didn't entirely like it – the crudeness of the chords grated on him – but at the same time, he was oddly fascinated. So … he sat here. Every day.

He had bought passage to Italy on one of the more comfortable ships – he could see the vessel, bobbing in the water some distance away, like a bloated insect. The captain had promised they would leave soon, however, the crew were still replenishing supplies and performing maintenance, so they would not be ready to sail for some days. And if the weather broke, as it was threatening to, it would be even longer. Erik could do nothing but wait, which is all he seemed to do now.

Finally, he stood with a grunt and restlessly paced the room, his fingers trailing over the generic furnishings. Cheap, cold bric-a-brac. Cheap, coarse tablecloth. Cheap, tuneless musicbox.

He dropped his hand and walked over to his trunk, kneeling to undo the brass fastenings; he might as well check if he was running short of anything and see if he could get it before he left – it was hard to know if he would be able to find supplies once he was overseas. He opened the box and began pulling things out, methodically lining them up on the floor. There was a great deal of paint: in jars, bottles, tubes, powders … brushes as well, and pencils, charcoal, some canvas and paper. An artist's studio poured out of the crate, as he took inventory.

He had made his living with paintings and sketches for a while, and would continue to do so. While it was true he had a little money saved, he was not such a fool as to think he could live off it forever ...especially not with his tastes. No – he had learnt that money was one of the things in this world that afforded him the most pleasure and amusement, so it was most important to have some, no matter what. He needed an income … therefore he would continue to paint pretty pictures that would match pretty drapes and adorn pretty walls, in order to make a handful of pretty notes. He smiled grimly. Yes. He could give the public all the flowers and cottages and milkmaids they wanted. At one time he would have thought such insipid subjects beneath him, but those pretensions were gone - as he had learnt, in the end, nothing really mattered. Doing this gave him some occupation, it was a convenient way to ensure he had the means to live as he pleased, and when he was dead someone else would provide the necessary pictures. All in all, be believed he was quite content with the work.

* * *

Strangely, it was Jacques who had started him on this path, around three years ago, with the proposition he had offered that night in the tavern. Erik's role in the whole operation was simple. 

Regularly, one of Jacques' men would come to his home (if you could call the hovel that) and drop off some expensive piece of art: paintings were the most common, but occasionally there would be figurines, small busts, antique vases and that sort of thing. Erik was given a deadline, within which he was required to have produced an exact replica of whatever it was – usually he was given some weeks to complete more complicated pieces, though a few times he had had to produce paintings within two or three days. The items were obtained from rich houses, usually with the help of some dishonest servants, so the time he was allowed depended on how long the owner would be away from home, or how long the absence of the piece could reasonably be expected to go unnoticed. When the deadline expired, both the original and copy were collected from Erik, and a few days later he received his share of the profits. It was not a huge amount of money, but it was enough.

He was provided with any materials he needed, the young Gaspard – who could not have been much more than twenty – running the necessary errands. The boy usually arrived with the delivery man, and as Erik made his preliminary assessment, took down a list of all the things needed to complete the project. Somehow, whether by thievery or arrangements with suppliers, Gaspard was almost always able to obtain everything within a matter of days: rare shades of paint, obscure types of clay … these apparently presented no problem. Even when some type of treatment was required that Erik could not do himself – such as baking in a kiln – the boy would arrive on an appointed day to collect the object and it would be returned soon after, the work done. This made the artist realise that he was actually part of a very large criminal network, the extent of which he could only guess at ... counterfeiting was apparently only one of Jacques many 'interests', and he had contacts all over the country.

Some of the supplies Erik secreted away for himself. Although his new employment gave him less time to wallow in his misery, he found the work easy and mechanical, so his thoughts constantly wandered back to Her. He couldn't make music anymore … it was her sacred domain, and without her the doors to that temple remained barred ...but sometimes his mind was so full of her image he could not bear it. He needed a release, which he found in his art. Spare canvases and paper were adorned with her likeness, her beloved face coming to life under the power of his hand. His angel stared out at him, her beautiful eyes filled with love … sometimes his tears were mixed in with the paint.

Months went by in this fashion and Erik's shack began to take on the appearance of a busy, messy studio – in order to complete his work, he had chipped away a few stones from high up in the wall to allow the necessary light in (he didn't want to remove the planks from the windows) and cleared most of the debris from the floor. He hardly ever left the place now, as Gaspard brought him food, drink, clothing and anything else that was necessary. Gradually the business became more profitable for all involved, as they honed their skills and increased their contacts. Erik was surprised at the amount of money he began to receive – though it was still quite modest, by his calculations it was _almost_ a fair share, which was more than he had expected from Jacques.

In truth, the gang was pleased with its artist – he seemed more machine than man, able to produce flawless replicas of anything they brought to him. Only once had a forgery been detected, and that was only because a careless servant had chipped the glaze, exposing the cheaper plaster underneath. Most upper class fops wouldn't have noticed anyway, but this one had happened to have a professor of art history visiting at the time. Luckily, the idiot assumed it was the antique dealer he had purchased the piece from who was the real culprit, so the incident had not caused any trouble for them.

Erik had been useful in other ways as well. If there was some complex problem with getting into locks or safes, Gaspard would explain the situation to him and soon after, they would receive a diagram or sketch outlining what must be done. The artist would be paid double for such contributions. Once, they had required a timer mechanism that would open a lock of its own accord, and after he had been given the specifications of the lock and proper tools, he had designed and built one himself. It had worked perfectly.

For all that, though, Jacques and his men didn't even know the artist's name. They had very little contact with him, and he met any attempt to talk about non-business matters with contemptuous silence. They called him 'Vinci' in jest, and since he never deigned to object, the title stuck. He remained mysterious – even Gaspard, who was in his presence the most, had never really seen his face, as he wore a black mask that covered everything from his hairline to his jaw. Sometimes in the tavern, they speculated that he was a famous bandit who was wanted by the police, or some well-known noble who had fallen into ruin and did not want to be recognised. The possibility didn't bother them, however – they dealt with dangerous and unsavoury people every day. As far as they were concerned, he could keep his identity secret if he wished.

One night – perhaps a year after he had begun working for them – a big, muscled brute, appropriately named Hercule, brought Erik an unusual painting.

"Here you are, Vinci. This one must be done as quickly as possible – try to make it less than a week, if you can."As there was no room on the worktable, Hercule squatted awkwardly and placed the canvas, which was about the size of a large book, on the floor, leaning against a wall. Gaspard entered a moment later, ready with a notepad and pencil, in case materials were required.

Erik said nothing. His back was to them as he cleaned brushes in a basin, giving no indication he was aware of their presence ... but then they were used to this, and waited patiently until he decided to give them his attention. When the task was done, he wiped his hands unhurriedly and put the tools away. He turned around, bringing the lamp with him in order to inspect the work, his masked face coming toward them out of the gloom, expressionless.

The artist knelt by the painting and held the lamp to it. His eyes widened as they roved over the details.

"Where did this come from?" He asked the question without looking up, his voice almost stern.

Hercule scratched the back of his head. "Some foreign gentleman's flat. I know it looks odd, but we have a collector who's interested in such things."

The lines, the colours the style … they were unmistakably Persian. In fact, Erik recognised this painting - it was one of a set that had hung in the apartments of Mazenderan, long ago.The daroga's apartments.

Erik had not seen the man in a very long time … not since his days at the Opera House, when they would occasionally cross paths. While The Phantom had kept an eye on the comings and goings of the Opera House, the Persian had always kept an eye on him.

"But how did you get it?" Erik asked. How on earth had such a man as the daroga allowed these bumbling criminals to just walk off with his possessions? They should have found themselves bound and gagged before they even set eyes on his belongings.

Hercule shrugged. "The man is ill, he remains bedridden. He has only one servant, who leaves the house for some time every day in order to run errands. It was simply a matter of going in at that time. The painting usually hangs in the study, but because of the owner's illness the room is not used and has been all locked up, though the mechanism is quite simple and we were able to relock it after we took the item. It is unlikely the servant will go in there, but we want the replacement as quickly as possible, just to be safe."

Erik was silent for a long moment, then spoke softly. "Take it back."

"What?" Both men looked at him in surprise.

He put the lantern on the floor and stood. "I will not do this one."

"But … but … what will Jacques say?" Hercule held his hand out in petition.

The artist snarled. "Let him say what he likes. He will have to get someone else to do it, for I will not."

Hercule paused. "It's a lot of money, Vinci. He won't be pleased."

"Well if you are that worried, leave it here with me as if nothing happened. I myself will take it back, and it will all be on my head when Jacques finds out." He smirked, showing his teeth. "I don't suppose he's forgotten the way my hands feel on his throat."

Hesitatingly, they agreed. There was no other choice, really, and they knew it.


	9. Lost Property

_**A/N: **Thanks once again for the encouraging reviews, Aiya Quackform and atheshar. You have no idea how much I appreciate them – at the moment they're what's keeping me focused on the story, amidst the mountains of work I should be doing. :) And you hit the nail on the head with your comment about the "H" in "her". I throw these things out there, hoping they'll be noticed, and I'm so glad to know that they are! _

_So, we're still in flashback mode, continuing on from the end of the last chapter. Ah yes, I love the Persian – although this story is based on the film asfar as plot goes, I prefer Erik's background in the book. I like to think the daroga was in the Opera House the whole time, just keeping a look out (;) ). However, as you will see by the end of this chapter, he isn't directly involved in Erik's flight from Paris – though he is definitely important as a catalyst for developments in Erik's character. He sets some events in motion._

_Reviews are very much appreciated. _

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**9. Lost Property **

That very night, Erik stole across the city towards the Persian's home, the canvas safely wrapped in cloth and concealed under his cloak. It was a long walk – as walks from poverty to middle-class always are – but eventually he found the place, waiting quietly for him at the secluded end of a modest avenue. He knocked on the door, the noise sounding flat and dull to his ears …feeble taps in the dark.

He waited on the stoop, noting with some unease the stillness of the street: he was no longer used to long stretches of silence, for over the past two years he had become accustomed to the sounds which pervaded the alleys surrounding his home – the drunken shouts, the clamour of fist-fights, the cat-like drawls of street-women …and the crying of their brats, hidden somewhere out of sight.

The calm quietness of this area seemed almost suffocating in comparison.

Finally, the door was opened and a low lantern loomed cautiously in the entrance; the flickering light seemed almost out of place, inconsistent with the dark blue stillness. The glowing glass was attached to a hand, and the hand was attached to the figure of a servant – thin and dark-skinned, wrapped in a robe, his bug-like eyes were impossibly wide.The butler bowed respectfully, but his gaze did not for a moment break contact with the visitor's face; Erik could feel his eyes quickly touching on all the details of his mask, like an unpleasant insect.

"Can … I help you, Monsieur?" The words came out of the servant's mouth hesitantly, yet retained the gloss of professional politeness.

Erik dipped his head and turned slightly to withdraw the package from his cloak: as he did so he was somewhat annoyed to notice, out of the corner of his eye, that the fellow immediately stiffened, presumably in preparation to punch or kick a weapon out of the bandit's hand. _Careful, boy_._ If you treat all your guests with such courtesy, one day you'll find yourself having to put those fists to good use._ But Erik resisted the urge to twist the servant's poised, suspicious arm off ... once the bundle had been retrieved, he simply held it out. "I came to return this," he stated.

After a pause, Darius took the item and cautiously unwrapped a corner, his eyes widening even more in amazement, until they looked like saucers.

"But … but … Monsieur … how …"

The visitor interrupted in a low voice. "I wish to speak to the daroga."

The servant tore his gaze away from the canvas and looked up, bewildered. "The daroga? Ah … I'm afraid it's impossible Monsieur. He is an ill man and he is resting now."

"I understand." Erik kept his voice soft, but abruptly stepped into the doorway, forcing Darius to retreat a little. "But know that I shall not leave until I have seen him."

The servant swallowed and the lantern trembled a little in his hand."Very well." He led Erik into the front room, lit a couple of lamps and gestured toward a couch. "Please wait here. I will see."

Darius exited, and soon after, a door was heard opening somewhere down the hallway. Erik, left to himself, didn't dare sit down on the spotless couch, but he inspected his surroundings curiously: the furnishings were quite modest, but he had not seen such comfort for a long time. His eyes wandered over polished floorboards, soft, elegant draperies and beautiful antiques and rugs that could only have come from the East; everything was clean and fresh. Above it all, there hung the faint aroma of incense – some jasmine, perhaps … and maybe sandalwood. Everything triggered memories for him: hazy images of blue skies and sand and marble halls floated through his mind, and laughing courtiers, and dark, peaceful nights. The distant reflections came and went, shimmering, not quite real, like mirages in the desert.

Presently, he heard the door down the hallway open again and the sound of footsteps, which heralded Darius' return. The servant came to him with a slightly surprised look.

"He says he will see you." Darius led him to the bedroom door, then motioned for him to enter.

"Thank you," the visitor said coldly, as he swept past.

Erik entered a dim room, in the centre of which was a wide bed. The daroga lay peacefully within the sheets, some cushions propping up his back, looking for all the world like a sultan himself amidst the folds of fabric, which Darius had arranged around him with great care. However, his face bore no regal strength – he was thin, and much older than Erik remembered. His brown skin had deep wrinkles at the forehead and mouth, while the once-black hair and trimmed beard were now streaky grey. His dark eyes were surrounded by slack, crinkled skin, and shadows nestled in around them, as if he had been deprived of sleep.

"Erik," the man breathed, as he struggled awkwardly towards a more upright position. "I knew it was you. No-one else would still call me 'the daroga'." The dominant expression on his face was one of deep curiosity, though his eyes also flashed with something like apprehension. "Why are you here?"

Erik walked slowly to the bedside, and spoke in low, but flat tones. "I was returning something that belonged to you. In future, you should be more careful with your possessions, Daroga, so they don't go … missing. _I _know you are an inept policeman, but you don't want to proclaim it to the rest of the world, do you?" The Persian smiled slightly and attempted to say something, but only ended up coughing into the back of his hand. The visitor watched in silence then sat in the chair by the bed. "You are ill," he said bluntly.

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"Oh, a while now. But I don't think it will last."

There was pause, and they both looked at the exotic, swirling design of the bedspread – the sick man's withered hands lay on top restlessly, fiddling with a handkerchief.

"Tell me, Erik," the Persian began hesitantly. "What have you been doing with yourself?" There was a nervous tremor in his voice, as if he were afraid of hearing the answer.

The other eyed him a moment, then laughed faintly – a shallow laugh, from the top of his throat. "You know that was never any of your business, Daroga." He leaned back in the chair easily now, crossing his arms, like a smug child who has just won a game.

The Persian's jaw tensed a little and his hands stopped moving; a curl of fabric remained wrapped around his forefinger. "None of my business? Well, y_ou_ may not think so, Erik, but I am partly responsible for you nevertheless … no matter how much I may wish it otherwise. I believe I am entitled to ask, especially now that I'm …"

Erik frowned and his eyes narrowed a little. "Ha. You may have rendered me a service in the past, but by continuing to indulge you and spare your life while you tried to meddle in my affairs, I believe you were repaid. Amply." His top lip curled into a small smirk. "Don't be greedy now, Monsieur. It is most unbecoming in an officer of the law."

"But I was not paid in the manner I _wished_ to be repaid," he returned sternly. To his satisfaction, Erik detected frustration and anger in the daroga's voice – the man's eyes had become resentful and his forehead puckered until the space between his eyebrows was almost gone. He continued in a bitter tone. "Tell me, _Monsieur_ _Trap-door_, what was it I saved you for? What have you ever done to deserve the freedom I granted you?"

"Nothing, I'm sure," shrugged Erik, looking away without a hint of guilt. "Daroga," he sighed, "if you believe you made such a bad bargain for my life, I'm afraid that's your concern. Perhaps you can return me and make a better deal …what is the going rate for wanted criminals these days?"

The man merely shook his head and sighed, wheezing slightly as he looked down and resumed the twisting of his handkerchief. He spoke, softly. "You know, a long time ago, when I was a boy, my father once told me that to die peacefully is to die knowing that you have done more good than harm in this world." His lower lip stiffened and trembled slightly; he swallowed with a little difficulty. "Well … I don't know if I can say, truthfully, that I have. I don't know what good, or harm, my actions have resulted in … and I don't know what will … _await_ me … when the time comes …" He exhaled slowly and looked up with tired, sad eyes. "Erik … please, if only … if only you would …"

Erik interrupted him, his voice cold and flinty. "Careful there, Daroga. You know better than to ask favours from me. When, in your life, have you ever known me to keep a promise?"

The Persian nodded his head sullenly and looked down again, contemplating for a few moments. They were silent – Erik didn't move, but sat rigidly in the chair, barely seeming to breathe. Then the daroga spoke calmly, without looking up.

"Erik, tell me about what happened with Christine."

At the sound of her name, which he had not heard spoken out loud for so many months, Erik shook a little. "Christine …" he whispered in faint echo. He looked away to compose himself and after a while replied, "You have heard the story – it must have been in the papers for weeks."

The daroga glanced up and shrugged slightly. "I heard rumours, and I heard gossip, but I want to hear it from your own lips."

Erik was silent for some time, then he inhaled raggedly, his eyes circling the room and finding nowhere to fixate. "God, she was so beautiful, daroga … like any princess, any angel you ever heard of … you can't imagine."

"Yes, I know what she looked like."

"Ah, but you didn't see her there … standing before me … the dress … a wedding dress, you know, for me … coming to me …" his voice was thick, as tears started to form.

"Wait, Erik, I'm not sure I understand. Start from the beginning. Tell me all."

Bit by bit, the story fell out of him, almost beyond his control; sometimes it came out coherently, sometimes not, between his sobs. He took deep, shuddering breaths and tears began to trickle out from under his black mask. He didn't look at the Persian, who simply listened, silently, without judgment – though had he glanced up, he would have seen that the daroga, too, had to wipe away a stray tear now and then as he listened to the broken, passionate story. Eventually, there was nothing left to tell. Erik merely gasped one more time "… I love her so, daroga … I do … still …", rose shakily and stumbled out of the room before the Persian could say anything.

He ran past the stunned Darius, and out into the night. He ran and he ran and he ran through the dark streets, for an eternity, it seemed. Then, back in his home, he lay slumped on the floor – as he had done in the early days – breathless, weeping, until he drifted off into a restless sleep.

* * *

The older Erik in Marseille remembered himself with disdain as he sorted out his possessions. He had fallen apart at the mention of her name. Like a lovesick boy. 

He continued rearranging things from the trunk, his hands moving with particular viciousness as the small canisters of paint clacked against each other. He took out a number of small canvases – works which he had not gotten around to selling yet. They were unremarkable: pastoral scenes, pets, trees, children on riverbanks … he would not have given a centime for any of them, yet he knew they were commercial and would sell quickly. Money. He laid them aside.

At the bottom of the trunk was a larger painting, somewhat thicker than a normal canvas, wrapped in cloth. _This is the only one left. _Erik unwound the material to reveal the portrait of a girl. She was in an unusual pose – she seemed to be in the throes of some exotic dance; her full, red skirt swung wide as she twirled, her hands were elegantly arranged in the air and her dainty feet almost floated off the floor. Masses of dark curls surrounded her, and a deep red rosebud adorned her hair. There was something strange about the flower, however – it did not appear to painted, instead it seemed to be made of some type of coloured glass, inlaid into the surface of the picture. If you looked closely, you would have noticed that some of the edges and highlights of the fabric of the skirt were composed in the same way.

Although at this point in the dance the girl's back was to the observer, her head was turned and her face visible in profile. It resembled Christine a little … but it was not her. He had made sure it was not her.

* * *

After his visit to the Persian, Erik had instructed Gaspard to use his connections in order to keep an eye on the old daroga. 

Jacques had been curiously accepting of the whole incident with the painting. The next time he visited Erik, he asked what had happened in a disinterested manner, then merely shrugged at the artist's rude and evasive reply.

"Oh well, whatever you wish, Vinci. But I must tell you, we could have used that job," was all he said. Perhaps he knew that without Erik's co-operation, their scheme would be dead. Or maybe he had somehow learned to respect the artist's judgment. Erik's own opinion was that Jacques simply wanted to spare himself another throttling.

In any case, Erik continued with his work over the following weeks. The 'business' began to enter somewhat of a slump, as contact after contact turned out to be unreliable, but this just gave him more time to paint and sketch Christine. He recorded every image of her he had in his memory, until the cupboard where he hid these works from Gaspard and the others was almost full.

Eventually there came a week when there was no work at all, so Jacques suggested that their artist simply create some pieces they could sell in order to supplement their earnings. At first, the idea did not appeal to Erik – to have his work spread out on some table somewhere, for all the world to gawk at – but the need for money forced him to agree. He carelessly shot off a couple of trite canvases and sketches, made in the popular style. Although they didn't bring in nearly as much money as the counterfeit works eventually did, they sold quickly and provided everyone with a little bit to tide them over until the next big job. Jacques was pleased with the outcome, and the selling of Erik's pieces became the standard way for them to fill any gaps in their flow of income.

One evening, Gaspard arrived with a small roll of bills.

"Here Vinci," he said, holding them out.

The artist took them wordlessly, dipping his head.

"I have some news, too. The Persian – the one who lives in the Rue de Rivoli – he is dead."

Erik looked up. "What?"

"Yesterday. He died in his sleep."

Gaspard watched as the man inhaled slowly, then sat down on a stool, nodding. _So, the daroga was gone._

"Do you know anything else about it?" he asked the boy.

"Not much," Gaspard replied, shaking his head. "Only that he is to be buried in the churchyard soon – in the next couple of days. _Cimetière de St. Cecilia_, I think. He doesn't seem to have had any family, so there will be hardly any funeral."

Erik felt a heady, hot wave begin to spread through him. _If he had died in Persia, half the palace would have been in attendance!_ Immediately, he gathered up his coat and cloak, and began putting them on.

"Vinci … where are you going?" Gaspard looked on, puzzled and slightly alarmed. "Vinci?"

"I am going to the churchyard. Tell the others I will not be available for a while. Say I'm ill." He made a circuit of the room, blowing out candles and lanterns.

"But I told you, I don't know exactly when they are burying him. They certainly won't be doing it _now_ anyway. It's dark!"

"It doesn't matter. I'll wait." He couldn't just stay here … a churchyard would be far less oppressive than this place was at the moment.

Gaspard trotted into the alley after him as Erik passed through the door and locked it.

"You could be waiting for _days_," the boy hissed.

The artist merely ignored him and swept up the dark alley, leaving him behind.

Erik walked swiftly, the exertion and the night air soothing him, the chilliness like a balm on his skin. He heard his footsteps echoing off the stone street and walls in mangled rhythms. He breathed deeply. _If he had done nothing else for the man, he would at least see him off into the afterlife._


	10. A Stranger in Foreign Lands

**10. A Stranger in Foreign Lands**

The cemetery of Saint Cecilia was almost on the other side of the city, not too far from the daroga's former home … or the Opera House, for that matter. Erik knew it well. It was rather large, with a church on the grounds, which had been the most convenient place of worship for the more pious inhabitants of the Populaire. It was also the resting place of Monsieur Daae; whoever had arranged his funeral had decided that he should lie here, under the protection of the patron saint of music.

Erik remembered how – when Christine was a little girl, fresh with grief from her father's death – he had whispered comforting stories to her about Saint Cecilia, about how the saint would protect her and her father. Saint Cecilia … the saint of music, virgin martyr, who had been aided by her guardian angel and who remained eternally beautiful, even in death. They were pretty stories, all the more lovely because they had been created together – the child had added to the tale herself, creating a shared world for the two of them, sometimes surprising her guardian with her ideas. Saint Cecilia lived heaven, in an airy castle where all the walls were of pearl and gold, and where all souls were allowed to wander as they pleased. There were endless corridors of doors, and behind each was an angel creating a world with its own special music, conducting and directing the sounds so that they gradually resolved themselves into solid shapes, born of the notes. In this way, one could dance among stars that were actually shards of "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik", or behind another door, walk through a strange forest weaved from the melodies of Vivaldi's "The Four Seasons", meeting any number of magical creatures on the way. Christine knew her father would be in this castle always, safe and happy … she knew he would like the worlds made out of gay gypsy music best, for that is what he had loved to play for her, when he was alive. She liked to talk about him playing his violin there, and about the shimmering red and purple ribbons that would issue forth from his instrument when he made music. It was magic, you see; the fairies always thanked him for playing, because they used the ribbons to make their dresses, and sometimes he made them cry, when he played his sad songs. He was a special man there, her father.

Erik recalled how they could spend hours whispering, visiting Cecilia's Castle of Music, imagining the endless activities and delights that could be found within: he would sing her snatches of music, so that she could dream up the worlds to go with them, and eventually she began to sing herself, with her sweet, pure voice, so that he could do the same. The game had been as comforting for him as it had for her – with her songs to inspire him, his imagination had come alive with the most beautiful images and stories to delight her. He had felt like a boy himself, living the moments of wonder and excitement he had never known in his own childhood.

Though that was all so long ago, now, and she had been so young. She wouldn't remember any of it … it had stopped as soon as she was a little older and he began to tutor her in earnest. Even if she did remember, the innocence of those times had been thoroughly destroyed and swept away in the violent, dark currents that followed.

Wrapped up in his memories, he didn't know how long he had walked, but eventually he found himself at the gates of the churchyard and slipped inside. As it was the middle of the night, the place was of course deserted. He skirted around the "old" section and made his way to the newer graves, where the daroga would lie. Briefly, he wondered what the Persian would think about being buried here, in a Christian graveyard – Erik was sure he would have liked to be transported back to his own country, but apparently he had not been able to make such wishes known, or else the funds to carry out such an operation were missing.

At least they had managed to give him a grave. Erik soon found a plain wooden marker, hastily inscribed with the daroga's name, standing in the ground on a plot rather close to the main path. This is where the tombstone would stand, once it was finished – however, the grave had not yet been dug; it was still an unblemished patch of green grass. Well, at any rate, this was the place he should be watching … he looked around for a suitable waiting-spot.

Not too far away, there was a rather large and elaborate mausoleum, with many corners and alcoves where one could stay hidden. After making a circuit of the pretentious structure (which appeared to belong to some sort of Baron, though the carved name was so weathered it was unreadable), he chose a hole from which he had a view of both the grave and the church beyond it. He sat on the ground with his back against the wall, pulled his knees to his chest and covered himself with his cloak. Even in daylight, a passer-by would not see him … or if they did, would only glimpse an indistinct bundle and assume it was a pile of rags or else a homeless gypsy. He arranged his limbs for some minutes, finding the most comfortable position, then gradually drifted off to sleep, into restless dreams about music and saints and the daroga.

The next morning, he was pulled into waking by the sound of church bells. He dared not move, but lifted his head off his arms a little to observe the world carefully from under his hood. The daylight was the first thing that struck him. Only rarely did he go outside during the day, so the sensation of light all around him was strange. Then he heard people, lots of people. He shrank even deeper into the shadows as he saw groups walking along paths so close that they were within earshot. What was going on? He watched the well-dressed people from the darkness, unnoticed. Finally it dawned on him. Of course! With his lifestyle, he had no use for keeping track of the days, but it must be Sunday. They were headed to Church.

He carefully settled back into his position … he would just have to be extra careful to remain hidden. He doubted they would perform the burial on a Sunday (unless the body was decaying very rapidly), but the idea of going home and coming back didn't really appeal to him. No, he would wait, as he had resolved to do in the first place. In fact, he was quite interested in watching what went on around him … it had been so long since he had had the chance to observe people … normal people. He looked at them going to and fro: families, men, women. An old man gave his grandchildren a cheerful scolding, a young man whispered to his sweetheart as they walked, making her blush. Nice clothes, easy smiles, light steps. With dull eyes he noted the thing that linked these people together and at the same time separated them from him. They were all _happy_.

There were a few gypsies and beggars around as well, hoping to catch church-goers in a generous mood. The wares the gypsy women sold were familiar to him … beads, amulets, herbal concoctions that were good for the health. If he went back far enough into his memory, he could remember how some of those things were made.

Eventually, the paths began to clear, as the service inside the church started. Soon, only the gypsies and beggars remained outside, counting their coins, waiting until the people emerged once again. Suddenly, hymns floated through the open windows of the building, startling Erik and stirring something within him. Music. He had not heard real music for a long time. He closed his eyes and visualised the notes the organist must have been playing, allowing the sounds to wash over him. It was beautiful. He imagined the pleasure the musician was feeling as his fingers caressed the keys, and his own fingertips began to tingle, as if remembering their former employment. Finally – too soon – it stopped, and the sounds of the service were replaced by indistinct murmurs, as people talked on their way out of the building. He watched as they began to trickle, then pour, out of the church again, the bustle of an hour ago repeated.

Suddenly, amidst the crowd, something caught his eye. A face.

Oh God, it was _Her_.

Christine herself was walking in front of the church, headed for the path that ran right past Erik's hiding place. She was on Raoul's arm, chatting to Meg and Madame Giry, who ambled alongside the couple.

Without moving, he simply watched them as they strolled along, her voice floating gently over to him as she spoke about people and places he didn't know. His reaction to seeing her was not what he expected – how many times had he imagined what he would do if he saw her again? A million fantasies had played out in his head in which he ended up with her in his arms, kissing her. A million more scenarios had been considered, in which he ended up on the ground a mess, writhing in agony and tears. He firmly believed that if he ever saw her again, it would be one or the other.

But he wasn't prepared for what he actually did feel … and that was merely coldness. An icy lump registered in the pit of his stomach and spread throughout his body, evolving into numbness. There she was, before him, the girl who had filled his dreams for so many years. There she was … and she looked just like everybody else.

The four of them were indistinguishable from any other group of people he had seen that morning. Together they formed a set. And they were happy. He could see them, but they belonged to that other world – the world which all the other happy people belonged to, the world he was separated from, as if there was an unbreachable screen of gauze between him and them. He didn't feel sad that she was happy. He didn't feel happy that she was happy. He didn't feel anything. It was simply a fact, nothing more.

This reaction puzzled him, and after they had passed, he left his hiding place to shadow them for a while longer, ducking in between the statues and tombstones.

He examined her carefully: she was still as beautiful as ever – a trifle thinner, perhaps, but that was all. Her voice was the same as he remembered. But somehow, on the arm of her handsome husband, walking with that particular step all married women somehow acquire, chatting easily and animatedly with her friends about things he didn't know … she seemed … different. The ethereal glow he had always associated with her was gone, and her eyes, though still sparkling and bright, seemed … flatter.

She fit into their world of picnics and plays and dinners perfectly and Erik had absolutely no presence there, just as their ways were completely foreign to him. Perhaps, at one time, he and Christine had occupied the same space and their minds had met, but their paths had diverged and that was no longer so – whatever cord of connection had existed between them seemed to have snapped. He could tell that they would not understand one another anymore. She was not the open book she had once been to him.

Again, to his amazement, this didn't hurt him: he had no feelings about it. It was simply an acknowledgement of the way things were. It seemed natural. Natural that she should be with them, and that he should be alone.

He followed them and the party made a brief stop by Christine's father's grave. With her husband at her side, she faced the monument with a calm, sad smile – not the passionate desperation she used to. Madame Giry handed her a flower and Christine laid it on the ground. Hiding nearby, Erik searched her face for any sign that she could sense him – not with any hope, simply out of curiosity, for there had been a time when she could feel his presence even when he was invisible to her. He found nothing. It seemed fitting.

After a moment, they turned away and returned to the path, heading towards the exit.

On the way, an old gypsy woman accosted them, holding out charms and amulets tantalizingly.

"Would the ladies care for an amulet, Monsieur?" She dangled one in Raoul's face and the lovers looked at each other, smiling indulgently.

The old woman continued. "This one's good for protection. It will keep away evil spirits and ghosts." She chuckled toothlessly, and Raoul, Christine and Meg laughed politely in return.

"What do you say, ladies?" Raoul turned to his companions. "Do you find yourselves in need of some protection from ghosts?" They shook their heads, smiling. "Ah well," he spread his hands apologetically before the old woman. "It appears we have some brave girls here and we won't be needing any charms, thank you all the same."

"Very well. Good day, Monsieur," the woman curtsied and went in search of other prey.

As the group left through the gates, Erik smirked oddly. _Ghosts. No, ghosts can't do anyone any harm. They're not real._


	11. Grave Thoughts for Midnight

_**A/N**: Many thanks to you, atheshar and allegratree, for your wonderful, articulate reviews! I'm delighted to know that you are out there, continuing to enjoy my story, and I am most honoured by your comments, especially since I have managed to read some of your work and know what fantastic writers you are yourselves! _

_Okay, so we are nearly caught up on Erik's character and how he came to be the way he is at the moment. This chapter caps off his meditations in the cemetery, showing how his dispassionate reaction to Christine evolves into an essentially nihilistic world view – which is the point where past Erik and present Erik merge._

_Also, (as allegratree predicted), since we are now up to speed with the character, we get a little jolt along the plotline in this chapter as well. The story after this point is undergoing a major overhaul at the moment, so unfortunately it may be a little longer than usual before the next part is up._

* * *

**11. Grave Thoughts for Midnight**

He returned to his hiding place in the mausoleum and stayed there as the churchyard became deserted and darkness fell once more. Around him the night breathed softly, comfortingly. Insects hummed and chirped in the bushes, oblivious to mankind's troubles, while the wind lazily threaded its way through the trees. The moonlight illuminated row upon row of monuments – some small and elegant, others monstrous creations depicting angels and icons and crosses and every manner of thing. It was as if someone had waved a wand and turned a menagerie to stone. Erik breathed deeply and leant his head against the coolness of the wall behind him.

It was as if the haze he had been living in so far had lifted, and for the first time he saw the world with clarity. Things were this way because it was the only way they could be. In the past, he had tried to interfere with the natural order, and it had come to nothing – all he had succeeded in doing was heaping misery upon himself. She was with Raoul now … and they would live together, happily, raise some babies, perhaps, then die, just like everybody else. Erik's intrusion into her life had been nothing more than a slight aberration, and now that he was gone her path would continue as it should. He would slowly fade from her memory – perhaps he was already gone – and to the world he would become just another strange tale, to be taken out and aired when amusement was wanting. He had left no mark on her, it was as if he never existed. But then … everyone's lives were like that. He thought of the daroga. The daroga was gone … and … nothing. The world would go on, pretty much as it always had, not knowing he had even lived.

He looked at the graves around him. Who _were_ these people? He didn't know, but a sense of calm washed over him as he realised it didn't matter. Nothing mattered, in the end. People were born, and then they died – soon he would die, just like the daroga had, and so would Christine and Raoul, and none of them would be any better off than the people buried here.

At that moment, in the darkness, surrounded by the evidence of life's impermanence, Erik made a decision. He would waste no more time wallowing in fruitless, useless passions, raging against the universe and its ways. Up until now, he had been behaving like a petulant child, playing foolish games, demanding things that were just not his to demand, and all it had brought him was ruin. That world of beauty and light was not for him and never had been. Observing Christine today had proved that … he did not know her, he didn't know the world she appeared to fit into so perfectly.

From now on, the martyr he had envisioned himself to be was gone – he had no obligations to anyone but himself. He would live in the world as a mere observer … enjoy whatever material comforts he could, and laugh right back at the fates, who had been so unkind to him. Let all those insipid creatures he had seen that morning go on with their little lives. All those happy people – he didn't need or want any of them, just as none of them cared a jot that he existed either. None of it really mattered, in the end.

It was all one big long joke, this period between birth and death, and as long as he remembered this and used his head, he was invincible.

ooo

In the morning, he watched as the men dug the daroga's grave, six feet down. Eventually, the coffin appeared, accompanied only by Darius and a priest. Erik emerged from his place to join them as the blessings were said and the daroga was lowered into the ground. He stood next to the servant, head bowed, hood covering his face.

When the ceremony was over, Erik turned to leave, but Darius caught him by the arm.

"Monsieur, please wait." He pulled something from his satchel and held it out. "Here, the Master himself instructed me to give this to you personally if I should ever see you again. I don't know why, but I had a feeling you would be here today, so I brought it."

Suspiciously, Erik took the object and unwrapped the cover: it was the painting he had returned so many months ago.

"He wouldn't let me sell it," Darius continued. "Not even to pay for the proper ceremony I knew he wanted. He was determined that you should have it, as a keepsake."

"Thank you," said Erik brusquely, as he turned on his heel and stalked away, back home.

A few days later, he asked Gaspard to find the name and details of the collector who had been interested in the piece before. Together, they sold it behind Jacques' back, and even minus Gaspard's five percent, Erik earned a _great_ deal of money out of the transaction. He hid the thick wad of bills away for safekeeping … but only after extracting a couple of notes to buy the fine brandy had long been craving.

* * *

A thunderclap brought Erik back to the present, in the hotel room, his supplies still spread around him. The thick grey sky outside was churning. It was about to rain. 

That night in the churchyard had been a turning point for him – it had made him see things the way they are, without the muddling swirls of emotion that had plagued him before. He was calmer now, more controlled. Stronger than he had ever been. He was carrying a secret that was beyond the grasp of all the _ordinary_ people he walked among – he knew that nothing was really important. Love, art, companionship, truth, beauty, even music: these were all just things people – all those common people – invested themselves in and hid behind to make the emptiness of living, the pettiness of living, the pointlessness of living more bearable. He was better than that. He didn't need such fabrications to comfort him anymore. Surviving from one day to the next was all one could do, and if you managed to do so in physical comfort and taste the finer things in life, so much the better. But it was ridiculous to let one's passions become all-consuming.

He looked down once more his paintings. After the cemetery, he had slowly worked his way through all the pictures of Christine and eliminated them. He had not done anything pointlessly destructive like breaking them or burning them – this would be silly waste, for they were good canvases. Instead, he had leisurely painted over each one, replacing her image with something inane but decorative and saleable. The only exception was this large one – the picture of the dancing girl. With all the inlays and the special features, it had been impossible to do a complete painting-over. He had had to settle for changing the face, which he had altered as much as possible.

Another rumble of thunder, closer now, made him look up. The storm was well and truly upon them and rain began to pour down noisily outside, thick and stifling. Erik put down the canvas and went to the window: everything was a grey, humid wall of mist as silver slivers of rain pelted the ground. Shouts were coming from below as people scattered, looking for cover. Among them was the captain of the ship he had booked, who had apparently been walking on the street below. Erik receded behind the curtain … he didn't want the man to look up and see him. He had not told the captain where he was staying, just as a precaution.

The man seemed to be waiting for somebody to catch up, waving his hand, beckoning. A younger man came running up behind him, covering his head with his coat. Erik saw this person's face and froze. It was Gaspard.

_What the hell was he doing here?_ His mind began to work quickly, rifling through all the questions, all the possibilities, and any options he had. _He had not expected this – not nearly so soon, anyway. The boy had been talking to the captain, so they must surely know his plans by now. How had they found him so quickly? More importantly, what was to be done now? _

Erik's heart began to beat quickly. Leaving by ship was impossible now – apparently they were keeping an eye on the outgoing vessels, and anyway, everything would remain at a standstill until the weather passed. But he couldn't just stay in this room, either; if they were looking for him, they would know to search all the places travellers stay … inns, hotels, boarding houses. It wouldn't be hard to track down the strange man with half a face.

He would have to get out of this town. Obviously he could not by ship … and they had already managed to track him by train. Perhaps he should hire a carriage – but even that was risky, they would be expecting him to do that. Eventually they would find the driver who had taken him to wherever he was going, then they would simply move onto that town and check out the travellers' accommodations there, and he would be no better off than he was now. What he really needed was a hiding-place they wouldn't expect … one they couldn't access.

His thoughts turned to the good Henri Baccour, the man from the train. What about hiding right in the thick of things? In a gentleman's home? Perhaps he should go to Nice, at least for a while – it wasn't very far, and may be his best bet for some short-term safety.

The little man was rich, he could tell, and although the invitation had only been "to call", Erik thought he might be able to weasel an offer of accommodation out of him. Rich men always liked showing off their riches. Though it was a pity he had been so curt with the fellow on the train – somehow, he would have to undo the imposing impression he had made, if he was to get what he wanted. But it still seemed feasible … especially when his other options appeared to be so limited.

A gentleman's house would be the perfect place to hide – there he would be insulated by the man's position, and even if they discovered where he was staying, they would have a hard time reaching him. Unless Baccour himself was some type of underworld figure, they would not come brazenly knocking on his door, no matter what. Once Erik was inside, he could easily fake illness or something of that sort in order to prolong his stay and avoid any social obligations.

However, one little thing nagged at him, marring the perfection of his plan: according the newspaper, the De Chagnys would be in Nice at the same time. Was there any chance …? His fingers twitched as he thought it through.

_No_, he concluded, more out of necessity than logic. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a part of him was apprehensive about the way in which things seemed to conspire to bring them to the same town at the same time … but he quickly stamped the notion out before it could gather any speed. Anyway, he reasoned, he was sure a meeting could be avoided somehow, if the situation arose. It was not his own reaction he was concerned about, of course – he knew what it would be. He knew he would be able to behave with perfect equanimity if he saw them again. But he feared what _they_ might do – make a fuss, hand him over to the authorities, try to kill him on the spot … whatever it was, it would definitely be something … _unpleasant_.

Erik shook his head and began to pack up his belongings once again. He had no time for this indecision; he had to leave. His only concern now was self-preservation – the sole doctrine he had lived by for the past two years. Looking at things rationally, Baccour's house seemed to be the best option, so he would take his chances there … and if his pursuers tracked him still … or if he could not get an invitation to stay … or if, God forbid, the Vicomte discovered him and set the police on him … he would just be back to running, as he was now.

At any rate it was worth a try, not the least because visiting to a rich house promised some comfort and good food for a while. With a wry smile, he noted that if it all came to nothing and he was cornered anyway, it would be far better to be hauled off with a belly full of champagne and caviar than the dirt they served in hotels.

He hastily returned the last of the supplies to his trunk and snapped it shut, then went in search of a carriage to bear him away.


	12. Rain and Reflection

_**A/N: **Atheshar, my dear, thank you so much for your reviews -you may do whatever you like with my story ... though please don't turn into a nihilist! _;) _Yes, Erik's thoughts are quite dark and bitter, but I don't think anyone can stay like that forever, least of all Erik himself. Some things about himself he can't change - for one, he's still a very sensual person, by which I mean that he has a heightened sensitivity to his environment(as you can tell by the gratuitous description in every chapter that is written from his point of view). And there are other things, but we'll get to those later ..._

_In the meantime, I apologise for the lateness of this chapter - due to some truly despicable weather here in Sydney, I lost my internet connection for a while. This may account for the obsession I seem to have with rain in this post ... though it is continuing the rainy day in the last chapter, I think I've dwelled on the weather more than I planned to. Alright, this is an unusually long and packed installment, it should really be two, I think, but no section seemed meaty enough for a whole chapter alone. Anyway, I think it is useful to have it altogether here because the rain provides a good reference point and it gets all our timelines in sync, so we know where all the characters are at the moment. (Oh, and just note that some of this backstory actually does have a point - just bear with me. ;) )_

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**12. Rain and Reflection**

It rained all over the country that evening: in Marseille, in Nice, even Paris.

* * *

Gaspard sat in the small restaurant by himself – the Captain had braved the weather to return to his ship, so the boy leaned on his table, nursing a drink, watching the others in the crowded room. Everyone with a few centimes to spare had come inside to bask in the warmth of the large fire and dry off; they ordered cheap bread and cheese and lingered at their tables, prolonging the comfort as much as possible, chatting merrily over the sounds of the storm outside. 

He sat quietly in the corner, swirling the alcohol around in its glass, taking a sip now and then. So … Vinci had wanted to go to Italy. It was fortunate that he had caught up with him before the ship sailed, for it would have been much harder to pursue the artist in another country.

Gaspard had been following him for nearly two weeks now, from Paris to Lyon to Marseille, using his contacts to keep tabs on the masked gentleman. The gang had split up in search of him as soon as it was discovered he was gone – they combed the city, seeking advice from every official informant they had, but no-one had any news to tell.

However, Gaspard's network of friends was much larger than they knew – he had found it useful to make personal connections which were kept separate from those of Jacques and his men, for he had learnt that the best sources of information were the ones who were not criminals – they were infinitely more reliable and had access to more areas of society. In this way, he happened upon a piece of information that had eluded the others: a luggage handler at the station told him that a strange gentleman with a wounded face had caught a south-bound train, headed for Lyon.

So when the gang decided to start searching beyond Paris, he had immediately volunteered to go south. Of course, he had not told them about his lead … no, no … it was imperative that he find Vinci before _they_ did. He had sent a couple of reports back so far, each one a lie; "No news south of Vezelay, but some suggestion that he could have gone west from there, bound for Nantes – alert Andre. Will continue on south, while awaiting confirmation."

He licked his lips a little nervously as he thought his actions through. He could imagine what they would do if they found out about his deception – it would not be pretty. Then again, it would be nothing compared to what they would do to Vinci if they found him first … he took a gulp of the burning, oily fluid, letting it fill his head with warmth. What they would do to Vinci – yes … this was the image that steeled him, and assured him he was doing right – well, as much right as it was possible to do in the circumstances. He could not let an innocent man suffer for another's crimes. Gaspard shifted uneasily in his seat and motioned to the waiter to bring him another drink, setting the empty glass down so savagely it startled the people at the next table. He rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes to eradicate the dots that were appearing there. And maybe, just maybe … it was a ridiculous, incomprehensible idea, but his rum-addled brain would not let it go … maybe the mysterious artist, who seemed to know so very much about so very many things, could help Sophie. Gaspard didn't know why he thought so, but in some strange way, all logic and reason aside, he felt that Vinci _must_ know something, something that could help.

His fresh drink appeared, but he slowly and deliberately pushed it across the table until it clinked with the candle-glass. On second thought, he had had enough for one night. He didn't drink often, so the stuff tended to go straight to his head when he did – it was best to be sensible about these things. Unlike most of his usual company, he had never developed a taste for alcohol; it was surprising because although he was only twenty-one, he had already been immersed in Jacques' world for ten years, frequenting places where wine was like water and the air smelled unnatural without tobacco in it. He had grown up counting dirty money and running errands under the cover of night, a frantic little cog in some big machine, knowing his duties and executing them well, an ambitious little apprentice. Sometimes he went to the church to make small donations out of his own pocket, perhaps in some attempt at atonement. The Father there knew him now, knew how he made a living and knew where his money came from. Although the priest had never been so cruel as to refuse the donation, he never failed to lament that such a bright, clever lad was being used in such a way. He tried to tempt him with bright horizons: nice stories about working in shiny big banks or law offices, or in stores that smelled sweet, or about the joys of honest labour like carpentry or masonry, or the bliss of working for God. But the old man didn't understand that Gaspard was in too deep now – his mind had been moulded from childhood for this profession, and he was exceedingly good at it, it was all he knew; one can't just uproot a vine and have it wrap around another lattice like that.

Gaspard remembered the day he had met Jacques on the dusty road that ran in front of their house; he had lived on a farm with his family back then. He and his sister had been playing outside when the traveller came up: a tall man, on a tall horse, with a fine leather jacket and a distinguished black beard. He had smiled at them as he passed, showing a mouthful of teeth, and knocked on the door of the house to ask directions from the children's parents. Since there were no inns within a day's ride, and Gaspard's parents were so generous, in addition to directions, Papa offered the stranger supper and a bed for the night – the family was always happy to extend hospitality to travellers, since so few ever came by.

Jacques entertained them all that evening (he could be charming when he wished to be), and brought much-wanted news from the nearby towns. He talked impressively about his business in Paris, spinning some story about being a trader or importer or something of that nature. Papa and Mama were enchanted; their simple farming life was a hard one, and had been declining for years so that as it was, they could barely eke out a living. Finally, Mama uttered a fateful wish that Gaspard could have some sort of opportunity in Paris, and that he could have the chance to become a fine man like Monsieur Jacques was. At this, Jacques laughed and blurted: "why not?"

With the most amiable face in the world, he had turned to Gaspard.

"Well lad, what do you say? Would you like to come and work for me in Paris?"

Gaspard glanced at his parents – their eager faces told him not to waste the enormous good fortune he had been granted in being asked such a question.

"I – I suppose so, Monsieur."

"Good. But I don't take just anyone you know – do you know your numbers and your letters?" His voice was playfully stern.

"Oh, I assure you, he is a very bright boy," Papa interjected. "He can read and do sums better than I can myself!" He made Gaspard recite a poem and quizzed him on some multiplication.

Jacques nodded his head. "Well done, lad. That is most impressive. Yes, I think you'll do very well – I always have use for intelligent men." He laughed heartily, as did Papa and Mama. And just like that, it had been settled. Jacques left a Parisian address before he rode off, and a few weeks later Gaspard boarded the post as it passed by, excited and somewhat fearful of what lay ahead. There was a tearful farewell from his mother and sister, while his father clapped him on the back affectionately – at the ripe old age of eleven, Gaspard felt proud, like a man setting out to conquer the world.

His arrival in Paris had been somewhat less auspicious; the dark, dingy flat was not what he expected to find. However, Jacques had been very welcoming and took to him like a father to a son, making him something like an apprentice, revelling in showing him all the details. Of course, for the first few years, the boy wasn't fully aware of what sort of business he was involved in, but he was earning money – enough to be able to send some home to his family – and was quite content in his own way.

First, he hadn't known, and by the time he found out it didn't matter … for by then it was his life.

And now he was here: doing what he was doing, having done what he had done. It seemed like an almost surreal turn of events, but unfortunately it was no dream.

With a sigh, he stood and left some coins on the table beside his untouched drink. Nothing could ever clean up this mess entirely, but the first thing he had to do was find Vinci – and quickly. There was no knowing how long it would be before they were able to track him down themselves: they may find him in a matter of days, or with some luck, they would never find him. But either way, it was important to speak to him as soon as possible, he needed to know – in the morning, Gaspard would begin asking around to find the inn where he was staying.

He dodged his way around the tables and plunged into the pouring rain beyond the door. It was cold, and sobering.

* * *

In Nice, Vivienne frowned at the downpour as she held the curtain aside. Oh, how unpleasant! It was just that time of year for volatile weather … hopefully there would be no such inconveniences next Friday. They had hoped to be able to use the patio, which was lovely on a clear night, and her heart would be broken if they weren't able to.

* * *

The rain also assaulted Paris, most inconsiderately, as the de Chagnys were having a little party of their own. However, once the guests had run the gauntlet from the carriage to the front door, nobody seemed to mind a bit about the inclement weather – in fact it made the warm space inside seem that much more cosy. 

The couple would be leaving in a few days, so the proper thing to do was to have a tasteful little get-together with friends. Most of their acquaintances were there … Christine's old friends from the opera, and the new she had made as a result of her marriage – Raoul had some old chums from university, as well as all the necessary relatives and connections, although his parents were still abroad. It was a mixed gathering, but everyone seemed comfortable enough. At present, they were milling about the ground floor of the house – old, noble ladies talked with other old, noble ladies while some of the ballet dancers flirted with their old, noble husbands. Otherwise, people chatted away in small groups while Raoul and Christine fulfilled their hosting duties by making the rounds and attempting to speak with everyone.

Mathlide had managed to work wonders with Christine's dress and appearance. The Mistress had been a little ill lately, but although her complexion was pale and there were circles under her eyes, the arrangement of her hair and clothing, together with her attractive vivacity, made her charming to look at. The only thing that ruined the illusion was an occasional coughing fit, though their friends had become used to this.

It was with pride that Raoul took her around, pleased with every admiring glance that was thrown their way. Over the past few years, Christine had honed her social skills and was now, quite literally, the perfect hostess. Her knack for knowing just what to say, and how and when to say it, had earned her a reputation for being sweet and gracious and "thoroughly delightful". But such skills had taken much time to develop and were hard-earned. It had of course been difficult in the beginning – opera girls are not generally the type of people to command much respect, even if they marry well – and many a tear was shed over the silly faux pas she committed in the early days, as a timid girl. The fact that she had been embroiled in some sort of scandal at the Opera House had not helped matters, but thankfully most of the details of that night the chandelier fell had never reached the public. There were always rumours, but all that was really known was that the madman at the Opera House had attempted to kidnap her, but she had been saved by the Vicomte before any harm was done. To stave off questions about the Opera Ghost from their curious friends, the couple maintained that Christine had fainted and remembered nothing, while Raoul had found her tied up, unconscious, in the madman's deserted lair. Most of the people they were now entertaining had heard this version of the story.

Eventually in their progression about the house they came to the Baron Vilente and his wife, who sat with ease on a couch in the parlour. They were the parents of one of Raoul's oldest schoolmates and they made a handsome couple yet. The Baron was a tall man with grey hair and a militaristic step, though a childish overbite and pleasant smile prevented him from being intimidating. His wife, with her rosy cheeks and big, tremulous blue eyes, surrounded by a fine network of wrinkles, could have stepped out of the pages of a story book, for she looked like any fairy godmother you could imagine.

"Christine, darling," she called. "Come and sit here, by me." She wiggled to make room at her side for her young friend, who came with a smile.

The Vilentes had always been supportive of Vicomte and his unexpected bride. While the marriage had resulted in a falling out between Raoul and his parents, who were rarely in France anymore, the Baron and his wife had been among the first to welcome Christine to society with open arms.

When Raoul had told them of his engagement to a ballet dancer and opera singer, they had reacted very differently to his parents. The Baron quite delightedly congratulated the boy on having the guts to go out there and bring home a "real" girl. Raoul wasn't entirely sure what the implication was, but he remained grateful for the support. The Baroness had initially harboured some concerns about the girl's virtue, not wanting the dear boy to attach himself to some kind of loose woman, but after meeting Christine she took to her as if she were the daughter she had always wanted. She had helped the girl ease into society, and Christine never forgot it, though sometimes she found the old lady a bit of a trial to talk to.

"My dear, what a charming gathering this is," the Baroness almost sang. "So many beautiful people. What pretty things your friends from the ballet are!"

Christine smiled. "Oh yes, they've all been blessed with looks, but" – here she shot a disapproving glance at some of the younger dancers, flirting outrageously – "sometimes I wish they had all been blessed with an equal amount of common sense."

A delightful giggle escaped from Lydia's lips. "My, you _are_ prudish, Christine. They are young! Let them enjoy themselves. With your looks, I daresay you too played havoc with the men before you were married, and broke your fair share of hearts."

A shadow flitted over Christine's face, but it was so brief that there was no time to notice it before all was sunshine again. "_Really_, Baroness! You do talk scandalously." She leaned in towards the lady's eager countenance, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You must be speaking from your own experience, not mine!"

Lydia laughed out loud at the flattery. "Dear girl," she said, giving Christine's hand an affectionate squeeze.

Raoul, who had been speaking with the Baron, wandered over.

"What is so amusing over here?" He asked, with a smilingly suspicious look.

A sly look passed from Lydia to Christine. "Ah, nothing that concerns you, Raoul. We were just discussing this season's gowns." Although the statement had been meant as a cover, it soon became clear that the Baroness really did have strong feelings on the subject. She turned passionately to Christine. "Oh aren't the colours this season just _dreadful_? There is this one particular deep scarlet that _everyone_ is wearing and I just can't _abide_ it!"

Christine nodded eagerly, with a look of disgust on her face. "I know _exactly_ the one you mean, Lydia! It is indeed a most unflattering colour for almost everyone. I really can't understand how people can wear such a detestable shade …"

Raoul interrupted with a merry laugh. "Well, I can see you weren't lying, Baroness. This conversation really does have nothing to do with me! You'll have to excuse me, ladies." He kissed Christine's cheek and bowed to the Baroness, leaving them to talk fashion to their hearts' content.

ooo

Later that night, when all the guests had gone, Christine sat in the bedroom brushing her hair and discussing preparations for the trip with Raoul. She wondered if she had time to get another gown made up.

"Oh, I think so." He smiled indulgently. He was glad to see her taking an interest in such things – this was healthy, this was natural.

"Yes," she continued thoughtfully. "I think I might need one made in a less heavy fabric than those I've got at the moment. It will be warmer there than it is here. I'm thinking perhaps I'll get it done in red …"

"What? Red? Surely not that deep scarlet colour you and Lydia were talking about?" He spoke, amused and incredulous.

"Mmm. That's the one." She was lost in thought, planning the garment in her head.

Raoul smiled, came up behind her and encircled her with his arms, putting his cheek against hers and looking at their reflections in the mirror. His eyes were mild and teasing.

"Now, Madame de Chagny. Did you or did you not say, less than three hours ago, that you hated that colour, and give every impression that you thought it hideous? Or is my memory playing tricks on me?"

She finally turned to her attention to him. "What? Oh yes. But I was just pretending for the Baroness, you know. She gets so worked up about these things, it really pleases her when you agree. If you don't, she becomes so depressed, poor dear, and begins to think there's something wrong with her taste or her judgment." Christine shrugged. "Don't worry, I'll only be wearing the dress in Nice, anyway. She won't see it."

Raoul laughed and kissed the top of her head affectionately. "Well, what a clever girl you are! You had me fooled – after hearing your conversation, I had resolved never to buy you anything red ever, ever again!" She laughed and put her lips to his hand as he walked into the next room to undress.

_She was amazing_. Raoul sighed as he undid his cravat, brimming with pride. Now she knew the ins and outs of their social circle better than he ever had. She was always the perfect hostess, knew just how to act and make people warm to her. This is why all their friends loved her, and all his chums were jealous of him – he, who had the perfect wife on his arm. And this is why the public had loved her, back when she had been on the stage. _She was such a good actress_.

Later, he fell asleep to the sound of the rain.


	13. Dreaming and Waking

_**A/N: **Phew. Sorry this took a while, but there were distractions this week (Easter and my birthday!) and this chapter has been the hardest so far - it's been written and re-written mercilessly, and I'm still not entirely happy with it, so there is probably more editing in store; I just wanted to finally put something up. This is one chapter for which I really, really need reviews. _

_It's hard because it's Christine's chapter - it's our first extended look inside her head. I think she's possibly even more difficult than Erik to write: at first, she was too crazy, then not crazy enough, then too likeable, then not likeable enough ... argh. I don't think I've made heran entirely sympathetic character, by which I mean she's not a Ms. Everywoman, with whom everyone will be able to connect immediately. She has to be someone who, as a teenager, could seriously have believed she was talking to an angel - but she can't be a plain idiot, because I've always thought there must be a reason Erik fell in love with her over all the other pretty ballerinas (we saw the beginnings of that in chapter10). Anyway, it all calls for her to be sensitive and perceptive (like Erik), perhaps have somewhat of an overactive imagination, and yet... be slightly off-balance (for the moment, at least). _

_Anyway, enough complaining. I'm anxious to know your thoughts and suggestions. One more Christine chapter to follow, then back to Erik. _

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**13. Dreaming and Waking**

_Running. Her breath was a burning black stream, rasping against the lining of her throat, exploding out of her. Her legs were weak beneath her, they were just falling ahead now, one after the other, faster than she could keep track. Cold sweat on her brow. Just a little way more … it couldn't be far._

_She knew it was somewhere here. Why couldn't she find it? Why? Tears of self-pity and frustration were dripping off her jaw, only to be caught by the wind. The powerful wind. It was blowing against her now, a solid wall of air which cushioned her and hampered her progress. She drew the hood lower down her forehead and leaned into the force, powering on as best she could; she cried out with the exertion, but the thick air filled her mouth and forced the sound back down her throat._

_Then, suddenly, she was in a forest, a dark forest where the wind was still blowing, though now it came in gentle curving whirls and eddies between the trunks, broken up, allowing her passage. Ah, yes! She felt closer to it …it was hidden in the trees somewhere. She would have to keep her eyes peeled now. Hope kindled, she began running desperately from plant to plant, panting, checking each one, fully expecting to find it around the next corner. But after a few minutes she felt small spots of chilliness alight on her face … one … two … and soon it was snowing, feather-light motes dancing in the air. A sound of dismay escaped her lips. It was becoming harder and harder to see. The specks began coming a little faster. She couldn't see. No … no! It was gone, it would be lost forever._

_She became still and sat on a stone, catching her breath, inhaling the white flakes. Her cold seat was unusually shaped – very smooth and angular … it was a tombstone, she realised, vaguely. But at that moment, she didn't care what it was, or who it belonged to. All she wanted to do was cry. Enormous pressure behind her eyes and her nose and in the bottom of her throat urged her to release it all. She was going to scream, scream until it hurt. She almost opened her mouth to do so … but just then, she became aware of some sounds floating towards her – curious sounds that were hard to identify and disentangle. She couldn't tell which direction they were coming from, they all seemed to be coming from different places._

_There was … a violin playing a jolly tune … some indistinct shouting coming from somewhere …men shouting … an unpleasant old –lady cackle … the sound of the wind of course, moaning in the tops of the trees …some people clapping (strange, where would that be coming from?) … …and someone singing, a beautiful, strange, sad melody. It was His music, she remembered it, and it spiralled through her like golden smoke, filling her with light, taking all the painful knots away. As she focused on that one stream of sound among many, she found herself walking slowly, trying to find its source. Her footsteps were soft, but sure. Then another noise filtered into her consciousness … it was a ragged, repetitive, high-pitched sound … what was it? She had to think for a moment. She should know this one, it was familiar. Why did she not know? Suddenly it came to her – of course! How could it have taken so long to recognise? It was a baby crying._

_Why was there a baby alone in the forest? She was filled with concern and turned around, searching for the child. Why was it crying so? Where was its mother? It must be so cold. A sense of urgency built within her, and she began running again, the music softly clinging to her and winding around her as she darted through the trees._

Christine awoke with a start, gasping and coughing a little. Where was she? She sat up in bed and looked around frantically, but all that confronted her was the stillness of the dark bedroom. Raoul was still sleeping; his body lay heavily in the bed next to her, his warm back toward her, protecting her like a living wall. She laid her hand on him, feeling his lungs expand under the cloth and the muscle; it was reassuring. Gradually, her heart slowed its beating. She blinked, swallowed and slowly laid her head back on the pillow.

She stared into the darkness above her, listening to her husband's breathing, and her own – the sound of one was deep and calm, the other shallow. Moonlight blazed in through the window and the net curtains, casting bizarre shadows on the moulded ceiling above. She tried to make out the forms she knew were there … scrolls and cherubs and flowers … but they all seemed strange and distorted in the dappled blackness.

What had happened in the dream to scare her so? The images were already quickly fading in her memory. Something about trees, running, looking for something … she had been desperately looking for something, but she didn't know what.

She exhaled slowly. She truly thought she was losing her mind, and had been for years. Not just because of the nightmares, but also because of her 'spells', as Raoul and Mathilde called them. They couldn't be right, they couldn't be normal. They were just like the dreams, only she was awake … He was always there … strings of strange, hazy images, words memories would grip her for a time … few of which she remembered when she was herself again.

_When she was herself again_. Whatever that meant. It was a funny saying.

She supposed it meant when she was once again the Vicomtesse de Chagny, Raoul's wife, the servants' mistress, her friends' friend, and so on. _Herself_.

Anyway, she was sure she had pleased Raoul at the party tonight, and it was always nice when she could please him. Dear Raoul. Her part had been played well, as it unfailingly was – she was the blithe, young Vicomtesse, of course! The sweet and charming bride! The enchanting ex-opera girl who was a breath of fresh air! In her mind, the words were said with more than a hint of sarcasm and she sighed a little. Of course she enjoyed the company of their friends, and she had met some very lovely people tonight … but … sometimes … just sometimes … she just had the urge to throw a drink in somebody's obsequious face, or screech her head off as Carlotta used to. For no reason, just because.

She smirked as she imagined what Baroness Vilente would look like covered in wine. _Scarlet_ wine.

The vindictiveness of the passing image surprised her. No … no. Why had she thought that? It was not fair – it was a downright evil thought, really, and she rebuked herself for it. She was just in a foul mood today, so the pressure to perform had been tiresome.

She in fact owed a great debt to this "delightful Christine de Chagny, Vicomtesse", as she was invariably called. How many times had the memory of this character, and all she was, brought her back from the edge? How many times had she turned to her when all else seemed confusing and she didn't know her own mind? Had Vicomtesse Christine not been there to guide her as to what to do, and how to act, and what to feel, she felt like she would have evaporated long ago, broken apart in a sea of things she didn't understand. Laughing the Vicomtesse's laugh calmed her, assuming her expressions comforted her, like slipping on a pair of worn-in old gloves. As much as possible, she lost herself in the role – in it she felt young, safe and adored … and sane. Every girl wanted to be the lucky Madame De Chagny, including her. The Vicomtesse's world was bliss … it was peace … it was what she had always dreamt of. In it, she was the princess living out her 'happily ever after'. She knew all that.

It was only that … sometimes … it didn't feel quite _real_. Sometimes it all felt like just another elaborate production at the Opera House. God, saying it like that sounded ridiculous and spoilt and ungrateful, didn't it? But it was just that at times, she felt like she was _watching_ her life unspool itself – to some inevitable end – rather than _living_ it. A storybook, but she wasn't the one turning the pages. Occasionally, during conversations at parties and such, she would find her consciousness floating up above the room and looking down on the scene from afar. A bird's eye view. Or a ghost's view. Or an angel's view. Anyway, the scene she observed from up there was always lovely – beautiful, graceful people, secure and comfortable in their stylish homes, talking about all the pretty little details of their oh-so-pleasant lives. It was picture perfect, and she was in the centre of the picture; the trouble was, it was all so lovely and glossy that it seemed like a scene one painted on a piece of china, not a real life.

She had to admit that now she had lived as one of them for four years, Christine held just a breath of contempt for some of the nobility she and Raoul had to associate with. They had never known a life without the comfort of their riches, they had never had to step outside the warm glow of their privilege. Often she would sit back and reflect on her days as simply one of many in the Opera House dorms, and even further back, to the less-than-luxurious life she had had with her father. None of them could understand what it was like to live only on bread and cheese, or dance for ten hours a day until your feet bled and your muscles turned to jelly.

There were flashes of this in Raoul sometimes – not being able to understand the ways of those less privileged than himself … though it was only ever little things that caught her attention … because he tried. In the dark, she looked affectionately at his sleeping form. Once, they had been on a trip to the country and came across a street stall selling cheap bread and vegetables. On a nostalgic whim, she had Raoul buy some of the coarse, black rye bread – long ago, the stuff had been a staple for herself and her father when they were running low on funds, and the smell of it brought back memories of happy days in the sun. She smiled as she remembered how Raoul had chewed on it, pretending he liked it, doing his best to hide his distaste for the unfamiliar flavour. She had let it go on for some minutes, snickering into her sleeve, before she finally suggested that they go and get some "real food" – the look of relief on his face had been hilarious.

Oh, she _loved_ him so. How could she not? He was so kind, so caring, worried about her so. So handsome, so warm, so funny. Haphazard images and memories filled her mind in quick succession, reminding her of why she loved him: the sly way in which he hid his gifts for her, the clear blue of his eyes, the way he teased her, the way they could collapse into hysterics over a silly game, the strong arms that bound her safely and warmly to him, the way he smelled of trees and fur and feathers when he came back from a day of shooting, the little dimple that appeared on his cheek, just a little too high, when he smiled, the way he let her curl up to him and lean against him while they sat in lazy silence, the way he stroked her cheek and kissed her forehead when she was sick in bed, the way he liked to curl her hair around his fingers when she had it loose. All of these things made her happy.

She was actually rather amazed at how loving he was – cynical friends had assured her that the 'honeymoon period' would last a year at most, and yet now, almost four years on, Raoul still seemed consistently adoring. It was all the more miraculous because in the upper echelons of Parisian society, she was constantly assaulted with gossip about husbands becoming drunkards and taking mistresses and engaging in all sorts of idleness and debauchery – she was immensely grateful that Raoul had never succumbed to such vices.

However, although he was tender, she did not fall into the trap of thinking he was simply a blind, lovesick fool. He was capable of harsh words too – sharp, _incisive_ words that cut her to the quick – though these sentiments never lasted long and were soon drowned out in a flood of affection … no matter how admittedly strange or unreasonable she had been. She appreciated this, loved him for it, and did her best to be worthy of him. Worthy of his love, which was pure and childlike … and which, above all, seemed to some so _easily_ to him. She meditated on this idea with a twinge of discomfort. Sometimes she envied him the apparent ease with which he loved her: he seemed to do it so naturally. All the conventions and unwritten laws of marriage had seemed to come to him by instinct, while she had had to learn them, laboriously, in the way one picks up a new task or dance routine: continually making mistakes and trying to learn from them. She thought that perhaps she had been put at a disadvantage early on in life, having no mother, and therefore no wife to model herself upon. Unlike Raoul, who had lived with both his parents, she had had no marriage to observe and learn from and no opportunity to analyse the intricacies of such a relationship.

At that moment Raoul shifted in his sleep and turned so that he was facing her – the soft eyelids fluttered for an instant, then settled down once more, accompanied by a small, contented sigh. She smiled. Powerless in sleep, his face was mellow and sweet and beautiful, like one of those unassuming princes of old, whose grace and nobility always saved the day. He belonged in fairy tales … in worlds where the good were always handsome and the bad always ugly … where everything bright and simple, because things were usually what they seemed – and when they were not, there was always a spell that could be broken to set everything right.

Gently, she pushed a golden lock of hair away from his face and trailed a finger down his smooth, unwrinkled cheek, from his brow to his handsome, cleft chin. The image of a prince was nice, but sometimes it was a little too accurate. Occasionally, it was almost as if he seemed _too_ much like a story-book character, and not enough like a man … though it was only the tiniest, trifling things that gave this impression … and they were too silly to say out loud, really. For one, he would not dress and undress in front of her – he would enter and leave their bedroom in a robe, to perform the chore elsewhere. And she knew he liked snuff tobacco, but he would never take any in her presence, despite her protests that she had no objections whatsoever. Furthermore, he wouldn't blow his nose in front of her, or sneeze if he could help it, even when he was sick with a cold. In fact, it appeared that anything he considered ugly or awkward or ungentlemanly was hidden from her, as if she would be disgusted or tainted by his coarseness. Even though she did not like it, she thought that perhaps this was just another one of those things that was normal in a marriage – one of those secret rules Raoul was privy to, but not herself – so she never said anything.

Besides, in a way, wasn't she doing the exact same thing he was – hiding the parts of herself she didn't want him to see? Hiding them deep and dark, behind the Vicomtesse's gentle face?

She sighed. Never mind. She didn't want to think about it all right now. Sometimes things were all just too complicated. She shifted on the mattress, turning away from him and curling up on her side, shoving her heavy chestnut hair behind her irritably. Right now, all she wanted to do was go back to sleep and dream – nice, calm dreams this time, if that was at all possible.

She closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep to images of gardens and mountains and places from her childhood, but her mind wouldn't shut off, no matter how she tried. Finally, a little crossly, she rose, went to the window, sat on the window-seat and leant her forehead against the hard, icy pane. Her breath misted the window in front of her mouth and she looked into her own somewhat haggard reflection, watching the way every little twitch of her muscles could be seen in the dark glass. Her gaze moved beyond. All was moonlit and chequered outside, the world seemed like a dark, primal jungle, shifting and weaving mysteriously according to laws man had no comprehension of. She closed her eyes and listened. It was still raining, and that was an exciting, comforting sound. The drops came down gently and persistently, in arcane rhythms that always seemed on the verge of twisting into something familiar; the sounds bounced between coherence and chaos, never quite reaching either extremity, never settling down. It was fascinating.

She let the strange staccato rhythms run through her, and as they did they filled her with a thrilling and yet somehow familiar energy. In the back of her mind there eventually arose a tune – the muscles in her throat moved along accordingly, though no sound escaped her mouth. She knew the melody and recognised the image that had appeared with it, for they were the only clear things she could extract from her spells and her dreams. It was Him. The Phantom.

She continued to hum silently as she stood. Although the urge to sing was strong, she was still conscious of her sleeping husband, so instead she took a few ballet steps, her bare feet rolling across the plush carpet ... she began to dance to the music in her head. The charm of dancing in the dark, secretly, was not lost on her: she felt like a child indulging in some deliciously forbidden activity, or some pagan witch performing a solstice ritual. She knew she would have to scold herself for this later – for the ridiculousness of what she, the Vicomtesse, was now doing, for letting herself enter the utter madness of it, for thinking about things she should be trying to drive from her mind, for letting Him in where he wasn't welcome – but something compelled her. She kept wanting just a few moments more of this illicit abandon. So she danced.

She made her way across the room in clumsy ballet figures, limbs stretching under the flaring sea of her nightgown, twisting, whirling, writhing, until finally she began to lose her breath. The music began to fade, his image began to fade.With one final turn, her tiredness made her swing a little wide and she felt the back of her hand strike something ... however, the pain in her hand barely registered as she collapsed onto the floor and coughed, as quietly as possible, gasping, waiting for her breathing to settle. She should not have done that, it was bad for her lung.

A few minutes later, when she was calm, she picked herself up off the floor (self-reproaches already forming in her mind) and began to hobble back to bed. However, she felt something cold and hard under her foot – it was whatever she had knocked off the mantle with her hand. She bent down: now that she looked more closely, the moonlight revealed that there were a few pieces there, which she picked up. Apparently the object had broken on the stone of the hearth.

As recognition of the item dawned on her, she began to panic. _No!_ She found that she was holding the remnants of a small figurine – it had been a crude clay depiction of a little girl, but was barely recognisable now, as the limbs had been broken and most of the skirt had cracked and fallen apart. _Not this!_

She sunk to her knees, squeezing the pieces tightly, as if that would mend the damage. She felt hot tears come to her eyes. _Of all things …no … this was a bad omen. _Why, why had she been so reckless? Crying quietly now, she sadly tried to rearrange the parts so that they fit together once more … but it was useless. She returned to her bed, still clutching the clay pieces, letting the tears fall silently. _Tomorrow she must see Madame Rosa. There must be something she could do to fix it_! She kept the largest piece safely in her hand and put the rest under her pillow, the way she used to leave her teeth for fairies to find and work their magic on. Perhaps one could work some magic for her now.

Eventually, Christine fell asleep again, but not to the nice, calm dreams she had been hoping for.


	14. What Madame Rosa Thought

_**A/N: **Sorry for the long break, been a bit busy. Next chapter, a slightly amusing one with Erik,will be up more quickly. _:)

**

* * *

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**14. What Madame Rosa Thought**

Christine always wore her shabbiest cloak to see Madame Rosa. The gypsy's home was in an unsavoury part of town, wedged between a pawnshop and a tobacconist, so such precautions were necessary to ward off the muggers and pickpockets that crawled the streets there. She walked quickly this morning, deftly dodging the pools of water left by the previous night's rain. The broken clay figurine was stored safely in her reticule, and she could feel the weight of it swinging gently under her cloak like a pendulum – the twisted, silken cord of the purse rubbed against her wrist, back and forth, to the rhythm of her walking.

She had visited Madame Rosa a few times since their first meeting around a year ago. The Baroness Vilente had thrown a party one night and the gypsy had been hired to serve as entertainment, delighting guests with reports of future lovers and next big wins at the racetrack. However, when Christine's turn came, the gypsy had offered nothing.

"I'm sorry, child. It is all cloudy, I cannot make it out," she had said, peering into her crystal ball. "Sometimes the fates like to play coquette with me, you know – they think it's part of their charm." The plump, rosy lady winked conspiratorially. "Bothersome things."

Christine was somewhat uneasy. "How can you see nothing, Madame? Please, do try again." The girl looked desperately into the ball, as if hoping to detect something there herself in its dense, icy depths.

"Well, my pet …if not a fortune, perhaps there is something else for you, hm?" The gypsy squinted into the ball for a long time, concentrating, then spoke slowly and deliberately. "_'Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and life to everything_.'" She looked up with a triumphant smile and laughed good-humouredly. "There you are. Well I'm glad I saw something, even if it was only some dusty old words from the beyond. That quote is from Plato, if I'm not mistaken, and he was a very clever man. Very clever. He does _so_ like to hand out a big dose of wisdom now and then … though unfortunately for _us_ his contributions are not always relevant to the situation at hand. You would think with that intellect of his, he'd manage things a little better!" She chuckled again, then sighed. "I'm afraid that will have to content you for today, dear, for I can see nothing else. I'm sorry it turned out to be such gibberish."

Though their first meeting had been less than ideal, Christine had felt compelled to see the gypsy again. She didn't know if she believed in this sort of magic – certainly the Church didn't sanction it – but the idea of being able to go to someone for answers (vague as they were) appealed to her, and had quickly become necessary for her peace of mind. She had, for years, received her direction from a real, live Angel, who talked to her directly, accessibly – the soft, ethereal voice had always been a ready source of comfort, inspiration and wisdom from above. It had been a live, shimmering connection to that world which is removed from ours. But … that had all fallen apart. He had, in the end, been only a man.

In the months following the events at the Opera House, she had tried prayer, spending hours in the church, talking in her head to statues and stained-glass saints, confused questions. But they never answered back … the images continued to smile benignly, silently, remote and unblemished by her confessions. After having had a private line to heaven in the Angel's voice for so long, the result of her prayers now was distinctly unsatisfying. She doubted everything she thought she had known about the saints and angels – after all, many of the things she had learnt had been fed to her by a fraud, a mere mortal, not the celestial being she had imagined. She felt lonely and ignorant.

Madame Rosa therefore came as a relief. To the gypsy she could bring her irrational, unanswerable questions and obtain, if not an answer, at least a few concrete words to take away with her. No matter if they made little sense, no matter if they were based on sacrilegious magic; at least it was something, not the stony silence she received elsewhere.

She turned into the dark doorway now and went down some stairs; the smell of essential oils became stronger, and finally she stepped through a beaded curtain. The small room was familiar to her: windowless and candlelit, it was crammed full of shelves holding an infinite number of bottles of various shapes and colours, some old books and plenty of arcane bric-a-brac, including a stuffed owl and an African mask, staring at each other with mutual suspicion. Christine's entrance brought a draft, causing the candles to flicker and sending shadows skittering across the shelves like a school of frightened fish.

"Ah, hello my dear!" The gypsy greeted her with a warm smile, heaving her stout figure off the chair and taking Christine's hand. "I trust you have been keeping yourself well." She led the girl to the chair on the opposite side of the small table then took her own seat before the ball. "What brings you here?"

"An accident." Carefully, Christine retrieved the smashed figurine from her reticule and placed the pieces on the table, sliding them towards Madame Rosa. "What does it mean?" She waited, the lines of face tense

The gypsy's eyes looked the fragments over, the network of wrinkles on her face contracting into a quizzical expression. The bangles on her wrist clanged as she pushed the clay pieces around. "This is the item I gave you last time you were here, yes?"

"Yes. It was for luck."

"I remember." Her voice was soft and solemn. "You were hoping to have a child."

Christine nodded.

"Hmm." The gypsy's eyebrows came together over her coal-black eyes and she shuffled the pieces around some more. Some moments later, her puckered lips parted and she spoke: "How did it happen?"

Her client fidgeted a little and looked down at the table. "Well, I was preoccupied, and accidentally knocked it off the mantle with my hand."

"I see." The fortune-teller nodded thoughtfully. "And what was it you were preoccupied _with_ at the time?"

A pause – Christine didn't know quite how to answer … she certainly wouldn't be revealing her crazy antics here. "The past," she said simply.

"Hmm," Madame Rosa said again, in a contemplative tone.

"Please … please tell me how I can fix it. I do _so_ want a child."

The gypsy sighed, then spoke softly, with compassion. "Well my pet, I think the message here is quite clear. Something is preventing that blessed event from taking place … you must make peace with the past."

Christine bowed her head and was still. She was thinking; she gripped the edge of the table as if she needed the contact to keep her balance. Finally, she looked up in supplication. "But … but … I don't know how," she finished weakly.

Madame Rosa shook her head sagely and reached across the table to squeeze the girl's hand. "Don't worry. You'll find a way, my dear … or it will find you."

* * *

Later, walking home, she thought about the past. She knew exactly what 'the past' consisted of – there was one large shadow hovering there, looming over everything … one figure, one voice that defined those years … and that was the Phantom. 

She exhaled deeply as she strode along, trying to disentangle her thoughts. She felt … what did she feel? It was hard to know anymore. Once she had been able to label her emotions, but now it was as if the more she tried to use words to describe them, the more confused she became.

At times, she found it useful to remind herself of the way he had looked at the very end: a man, just a man. A defeated man. A pitiful soul. Earlier on, he had almost succeeded in convincing herself that this was all there was to it – it was so much simpler that way, seeing him as a wounded madman.

But thinking about it in such a way … it made it all seem so … empty. If it was true, then everything he had said … everything he had taught her …

This was where she became entangled, as she remembered his music. _Such glorious, soul-captivating music_. And such a singing-master – he had seemed a fount of infinite wisdom: firm but sensitive … he had known exactly how far he could push her in her studies without it being too much. And further back, he had been a comforting voice in the darkness, telling her stories as a child.

All of that … and yet, he had been a madman. A murderer.

She felt as if she were caught in a net of insidious silken threads – thin, almost invisible strings that would not let her escape from his image. She felt his presence constantly, in some form or another … in her dreams, during her spells … and even in her waking hours. She sensed him everywhere, in the most impossible places: at the theatre, at parties, at the churchyard, lurking about her father's grave. And the smallest things could remind her of him – a snatch of music here, the gait of a man on the other side of the street as he walked. How many times had her heart begun to race when she saw a dark figure on the corner, only to find it was just some gentleman in a cape? She had learnt not to trust her perceptions such things, as she turned out to be consistently wrong – in fact, she had long ago learned to control any outward signs of these feelings, and even to ignore them … the way some madmen learn to ignore their delusions in order to lead normal lives.

What _was_ it that prevented her from forgetting? Part of it was the shadow of her own guilt, she thought, remembering the way he looked as she and Raoul had escaped. They had left him in the dark, alone in the dark, the unhappy creature. He had been shunned all his life, and when he had looked to her for salvation, she had shunned him too; her human compassion rebuked her for it. In the early days, she had clung to this logic, for it was a comforting, noble explanation. Yes, his grip on her was simply the result of her own conscience and her good Christian upbringing. But … she knew it was more than guilt.

Part of it was also the alarming idea that he could still be alive somewhere. Where was he? Did he even still exist? If so, in what manner was he living now? Such questions haunted her, as did the possibility that they would one day cross paths again. Though she had no idea what would happen if she ever met him again in the flesh, she wanted know. This was certainly something that preoccupied her, yet … his hold on her was more than this too.

A great deal of it was the mystery, she realised – disturbing "whys" and "what ifs" came to her, begging for answers that could not be found. She really didn't know who, or what the Phantom was … she had been given glimpses of the submerged character, but understanding what he had been was like trying to describe a sea monster from a momentary shimmer of fins and scales on the water's surface. The time they had spent with each other – not as child and angel, not as master and pupil, but as human and human – had been so short, and yet so dizzyingly contradictory. Half their words to each other had been hallucinatory expressions of love … the other half, of passionate hate and bitterness. They had parted with only the beginnings of understanding between them: there were glimmerings of insight, but many more open-ended questions.

Since then, she had been through too many states of mind with regard to the Phantom – trying to construct him in her mind and reconcile the irreconcilable fragments of him she had. He was barely even a person for her anymore … just layers of conflicting images, some real, some she had perhaps imagined into reality. To her, he was all things and nothing.

_Such imprecise_ _images are dangerous_, she thought with a frown, as she walked up the steps to her home. _They stretch into whatever you want them to be_.

Why did she so desperately need to understand him? After all, he was a madman, wasn't he? Madmen are _supposed_ to be un-understandable … why couldn't she leave it at that?

Inside, she greeted the servants warmly, removed her cloak, then collapsed onto a sofa in the parlour. She lay with her head on a cushion, playing with the fringe of the curtain, staring at the late afternoon sunlight and listening to the steady, echoing tick of the clock.

It was more than idle curiosity, she had to admit. She needed to know because … well, she couldn't quite define it, but sometimes he seemed to be calling her from afar … coaxing some hidden part of her to its rightful home. That was all she could feel, and it didn't make any sense to her. She hated this … she hated him being a mystery to her, because it made her a mystery to herself.

In fact, she realised, tensing up, she hated _him_. She hated him for making things so complicated. For killing people. For hurting Raoul. She hated him for what he had put her through, for making her different, for immersing her in his strange, dark world. She hated him for what he was still doing to her – making her crazy with her spells and her dancing and endless ridiculousness. Right now, she should be a blissfully ignorant and happy young wife … they way all her friends were. She should have a happy home and a happy family. He was ruining everything.

_But ... he let you go, Christine, so you could _have_ all of that_, a part of her whispered. 

_Ha! _Another part retorted scornfully. He may have let them go, but he had probably done it on purpose, knowing how things would turn out later. Vindictive ghost. She wouldn't be surprised if he had put a spell or a curse on them somehow, so he could enjoy her pain. Perhaps a curse from the Phantom was the reason she had been unable to fall pregnant: he didn't want them to be happy. If only …

She caught herself before she spiralled down into even more irrational thoughts.

Never mind. The point now was that Madame Rosa was right. _You have to make peace with the past_, she had said; Christine's meditations so far had only proved the point.

But … how does one make peace with a ghost?

She sighed and thought some more, her fingers drumming the windowsill.


	15. Bravissimo

**15. Bravissimo**

Erik had the driver drop him off at the train station in Nice. This served two purposes – first, he would be able to leave his trunk at the baggage check while he found Baccour, and second, when they managed to find out his destination from the driver (as they eventually would), it would perhaps fool them into thinking he had left again by train.

His heels clicked on the flecked tiles as he walked purposefully across the floor. He hated stations. People everywhere – _bored_ people, waiting. In such places his plaster bandage mask received even more looks than usual. He could see the unuttered questions forming bubbles over their heads: "_What happened to that man? Is he ill? Should he be walking around like that?"_ Resolutely, he ignored it all and turned his mind to the business at hand, obtaining a map from the information desk. _Rue Blanche_ is what Henri had said. They lived on Rue Blanche … well, according to the map, the street was not more than half an hour's walk away. He set off at a brisk pace, plunging into the town and taking little notice of the people and buildings that streamed past him: it was almost as if, by keeping his eyes forward and not seeing them, they wouldn't be able to see him either.

Soon he found himself in the correct area, and a shiny letterbox inscribed with the name "Baccour" identified the house for him. _It was big._ Erik stared up at the building, set some way back from the street, behind a dense, springy green lawn and gravel drive. It had a huge, imposing façade, where stone and iron filigree work mingled discordantly. The decorative touches the building possessed were slightly ridiculous: it was as if someone had tried to dress up an elephant with frill of lace – they did nothing to soften the powerful lines of the structure.

Erik, with his architect's eye, curled his lip back in distaste. Well, if nothing else, it would have been expensive to build. That was good – the man appeared to be richer than he had thought. Surely, if Erik made himself halfway polite and dropped the appropriate hints, they could give him _one_ room in this monstrous palace.

Before walking through the gate and ringing the doorbell, he steeled himself for the task ahead. It had been so long since there had been any need to be … _pleasant_ … to anyone, socially. In his life before the Opera House he had of course had to deal with people: living in Eastern palaces, protocol was necessary, and even after moving to Paris his contracting work had required him to cultivate business relations. But all of that was so long ago. For the many years he was in hiding, he had observed society mingling in the Opera House, and found he could never stomach the inanity that passed between people under the heading of 'manners'. The most he had done was parody such things for his own amusement, in his notes to the managers and so forth. But he was no longer some trickster ghost, and he was no longer in the slums, dealing with criminals – he would have to play the social game with these people, if he was to get what he wanted.

After ringing the doorbell and giving his name to the butler who opened the door, he was ushered into the parlour. He walked around and examined the décor as he waited. The lady of the house was obviously fond of ornate bric-a-brac, as it adorned every available space. Rich fabrics were used for the upholstery and drapes, and the furniture was expensive, but none of it _quite_ worked in harmony. All in all, it was a room decorated by one with a large budget, but a conventional and hesitant sense of style … Erik smirked a little. These were exactly the type of walls his ridiculous paintings were made to hang upon. _Perhaps that would be useful_.

Soon Henri Baccour and his wife bustled in, with grins that were just slightly too wide.

"Ah, Monsieur Angebeau!" The man held his arms out as he walked towards Erik. "Truly a pleasure to see you again. We are so glad you have come." They shook ands and the visitor did his best to smile pleasantly (though he had the distinct feeling he looked more like a crocodile than a man when he did so).

"Thank you for the welcome, Henri." He turned to the lady. "And this must be your lovely wife." Erik did his best impersonation of the fops he had observed at the theatre.

The woman blushed when she heard his voice – so beautifully melodious, so deep and soothing.

"Yes, yes. This is Vivienne." Henri held a hand out to her, presenting her. "And Vivienne, this is Monsieur Erik Angebeau."

The lady curtsied, and Erik bowed gracefully. He could see curiosity flickering in her eyes, but she hid it well and consciously ignored the mask. No doubt Baccour had told her about the man on the train, the one who had been wounded in battle. "An honour, Madame."

They took their seats on the cushioned furniture.

"So, Monsieur," Henri began, his hand draped over the armrest. "When I last saw you, you had no idea where you were headed."

Erik nodded calmly. "Yes, that is true. But you spoke so tenderly of Nice that I found myself longing to see it, and since I had a few days to spare I could not refuse your offer of a visit." He looked to Vivienne. "Your husband is indeed a remarkable salesman, Madame."

They laughed agreeably. "Oh I'm sure he is, Monsieur Angebeau. His business depends on it."

Erik chuckled along with them. He felt like a fool, but it seemed to be working. "Ah, yes. Steel and mining, wasn't it? How is that industry going?"

Monsieur Baccour's eyes lit up, pleased that the man had remembered their conversation. "Why, it has been very rewarding of late …" He launched into an explanation of the situation in Africa, and how it was affecting the market – Erik nodded, and appeared to engrossed in the topic. Vivienne, however, was beginning to be embarrassed by all the shop talk, and steered the conversation in another direction as soon as possible.

Henri was beginning to become excited " … Count Plachere is another with an interest in the venture, and he thinks that if we can just …"

"The Count is a lovely gentleman, isn't he Henri?" Vivienne interrupted gently. "And his wife is absolutely charming."

"Why yes, my dear," said Baccour. He turned back to Erik. "Very decent fellow, the Count is," he continued, nodding.

"We have had them over to stay any number of times," Vivienne informed their guest. "And they are always so gracious. They have been to the finest and most noble houses in the country – they even stayed at the Palace once – and yet they say they always feel most at home here."

Erik smiled and nodded some more. "Your arrangement here does seem to be very comfortable," he said, indicating their surroundings. _So, the wife has a weakness for the nobility? That could also be useful._

She blushed prettily. "Thank you, Monsieur."

"Indeed. It has been a long time since I saw so elegant a house." He sighed and looked away bitterly, as if confessing some secret. "My father apparently cared little for such things … he squandered our family fortune in a most imprudent manner until we were forced to sell both our home and our title." _Ha. Impoverished nobility. Perfect._

"Oh," breathed Vivienne. Both husband and wife regarded the stranger with compassion – Henri because the man had lost his fortune, Vivienne because he had lost his title.

Henri then spoke, sincerely. "That is indeed most unfortunate, Monsieur. Wretched luck. I – suppose that is why you entered the military then?"

Erik nodded. "Yes, I needed an income to support myself and my parents, until they died. I did enjoy it though, it was very good for my health – a man likes to be active and out in the fresh air, you know." Henri agreed vigorously, though his wobbling double chin leant doubt to the idea that he had ever acted on such feelings. Erik continued. "But then, as you can see" – he vaguely indicated his bandages – "I was forced to leave the service."

The pair of them nodded sadly. Inside, Erik was laughing … _as if they had any clue what lay under the mask …_

"So what is it you do now, Monsieur Angebeau?" Vivienne queried softly. Henri shot her an apprehensive look, remembering how the man had been reluctant to speak of his occupation on the train, but Erik seemed undisturbed.

"Well, at the moment, I make my living by painting."

"Oh," the lady exclaimed, surprised. "You are an artist, then?" He could see approval in her eyes – struggling artists, particularly ex-nobles, were exactly the type of thing to appeal to rich young ladies like herself.

Erik shrugged. "Of sorts."

"Why, that is wonderful!" Henri said with jollity, relieved that the uncomfortable portion of the conversation had passed. "You must allow us to see some of your work."

"I would, gladly. But my trunk is still at the train station. I have not yet checked into a hotel."

"A hotel?" Henri scoffed. "Nonsense. There are so many tourists around at this time of year you'll never find a room. You must stay with us while you're in town."

"Oh … no, good Henri … I couldn't impose …"

Vivienne grabbed her husband's arm and looked at the visitor – tears of compassion were beginning to form in her eyes as a result of his pathetic story, and the effect was so comical to Erik he had to work hard to keep a straight face. Her voice was pleading. "Please, Monsieur, we insist. You must stay with us. I couldn't bear to think of you staying in some awful hotel by yourself."

He sighed. "Well, if the lady insists …" he bowed his head and made a gracious gesture of defeat.

"Excellent!" Henri clapped his hands and rubbed them together, and a dazzling smile appeared on Vivienne's face. Baccour called the maid, who appeared in an instant. "See to it that Monsieur Angebeau's things are brought here from the station … Erik, do you have your check-ticket?" Erik retrieved it from his pocket and handed it to the maid. She accepted it with a curtsey and left the room.

Together, the three of them went to the dining room to have lunch – Erik was feeling rather pleased with himself.

ooo

By the time they finished eating, the trunk had been recovered and Erik was obliged to show them his canvases.

Vivienne gasped and squealed with delight as each new piece was brought out. There was a country cottage, a picture of a lake at sunset, some boys fishing and so on … she adored them all, and had some paintings of this style hanging up already, though not half as fine. Henri knew nothing about art, but was pleased because his wife was pleased.

"Oh Erik! These must be the prettiest pictures I have ever seen!" She spoke with excitement and awe as she examined each one.

Erik smiled graciously. "Thank you so much. It makes me glad to know you like them. Let me make you a gift … which would you like?"

"No, no … that is too generous. I will _buy_, but I won't accept it as a gift. You can't af…" She was about to say 'afford', but caught herself in time, afraid it would wound the man's pride.

However, Erik appeared to take no offence. "No, I insist. I shall be quite offended if you don't accept my present. Think of it as repayment for your hospitality."

"Very well then, but you must choose – you can't make me do it."

With a sly grin, Erik brought out the large, unusually thick canvas from the bottom of the trunk, wrapped in cloth. Henri and Vivienne leaned in curiously. "Alright Madame, this is the one I wish you to have." With a dramatic air, he slowly unwrapped the piece to reveal the girl dancing. Vivienne couldn't stop an expression of confusion and slight disappointment crossing her face. This was nothing like the others – if she hadn't known better, she would have thought it was done by a different artist. The colours and lines were strong and dynamic … she couldn't imagine where in the house she would put it.

"Thank you so much, Erik!" she said. "What an interesting work it is …"

"Wait," he returned. "You haven't seen all its secrets yet." Mysteriously, he reached around the corner of the painting and appeared to press some mechanism there. As he did, a beautiful melody began to float out from somewhere behind the canvas, just like a music box. The sound was slightly tinny, but the tune was composed of such rich, immensely satisfying notes that it stole one's breath and tempted your eyelids shut. However, closing one's eyes was not an option, for even more amazingly, the rosebud in the girl's hair began to ripple, along with some of the highlights in the fabric of the skirt – what was in fact happening was that the inlays inside the canvas were moving, and the spaces in the painting where they had showed through were being filled by a procession of different shades of red glass. The overall effect was that the rosebud was blooming and the skirt was twirling as the music played.

The Baccours watched, hypnotised. Finally Erik pressed the mechanism again, and the music and movement stopped. He waited for their reaction.

Finally, Henri breathed. "Monsieur, that is indeed extraordinary. I have never seen anything like it! You are a gifted man." Erik dipped his head with his usual grace.

Vivienne, still with a look of awe on her face, found her tongue. "Are you sure you want to leave it with us? It is such an incredible work …"

"I am quite sure Madame. That is, if you like it."

"Oh yes!" Vivienne was in raptures. What a novelty! No-one in Nice had anything like it. "You must present this at the dinner party on Friday. I'm sure our friends will be stunned."

"I beg your pardon?"

She turned to him eagerly and took his arm. "You'll still be here, won't you? We're having a small dinner party on Friday – I'm sure you'll get on well with everyone, we'll have some of the best people there. Some from around here, and a few from out of town." She began to chatter excitedly. "We will have the Baroness Duvall, and the Vicomte De Chagny and his wife, and the Baron Richard …"

His eyes widened briefly, then settled back once more. "Well I don't know, Madame … I shall have to see how my plans unfold." _No, he wouldn't be there._

"Oh, I will be so disappointed if you can't …"

And she chatted away until everyone parted for the night.

ooo

Later, alone in the sumptuous guest bedroom, Erik collapsed into an armchair and removed his mask. The whole day of role playing had been mentally exhausting, his patience had begun to wear thin by the end of it all. It would have been all too satisfying to take each of them by the hair and knock their two idiotic heads together. But at least he had achieved his objective – he had found himself a safe place to stay. Unfortunately it seemed the arrangement would be very short-lived. He would have to leave by Friday. All this work for nothing!

He still couldn't believe it – Christine and her husband _here_? He had known they would be in Nice, but in _this_ house? It had to be some cruel joke … would they never leave him in peace? Erik had scorned the fates once, and it looked as if they were repaying him in kind. He gripped the arm of the chair.

Obviously, he couldn't meet them – they would recognise him in an instant and throw him to the police. That was a given. He would have to be far away from here by Friday. But he was worried about the painting. He didn't know why he had given the Baccours that one. Well actually, yes, he did – it wasn't very saleable. It could probably have earned a small fortune compared to his other works, if he found the right buyer … but the right buyer had been hard to find, even for Gaspard and the others. It had been annoying his consciousness for months, in the same way a coin can burn a hole in one's pocket, so he had taken the first available opportunity to rid himself of the thing. Furthermore, he had to admit he had been after some amusement to numb the excruciating boredom of the afternoon: he could see that Vivienne liked his other works, and he had relished giving her the one he knew she would despise initially.

But now he regretted his lack of forethought. He didn't know if the De Chagnys would see anything in it, or even if there was anything to see, but he felt apprehensive. Though he wouldn't stay to see the results. He would get away before then.


	16. A Note

_**A/N: **For anyone who may still be following, first of all, thanks for coming this far, and sorry for the delay - lots of things going on, including a lack of internet access. _

_Allegratree - re. the bubble metaphor: I see your point, but it is in fact a little nod to one of my favourite poets, Gwen Harwood, so I'm kind of attached to it. :)_

**

* * *

**

**16. A Note**

The next day passed in a blur. Despite his protests, the Baccours took him sightseeing – historical monuments, lookouts and things of that sort, which he was told were "heaven" on a fine day, but were merely grey and soggy in the cold drizzle. At one point he had looked up at the bronze statue of some famous general and felt a sort of stoic brotherhood with the figure; he had watched the droplets of rain roll unconcernedly over the curves and believed he could sympathise fully with the expression of extraordinary boredom on the man's metal face. The one thing that preserved his dignity that day was the fact that they had been forced to remain in the carriage most of the day … having to ramble around like some sort of tourist would have been unbearable. In the evening, he had retired early, using a headache as an excuse to relieve himself of their company.

The morning after his second night at the house, Erik was awoken by a soft knock at his door. Hurriedly, he threw on his mask and a robe, and pulled the door open. It was one of the maids.

"A note for you, Monsieur." She handed him a sealed slip of paper, curtsied and turned away.

Bewildered, he looked at the address: "_For The Visiting Gentleman_".

"Wait!" he called. The girl stopped and returned with and inquiring look. "Where did this come from?"

She shrugged. "I don't know, Monsieur. It was found on the doorstep early this morning. We don't know when it was left."

"I see." She left once more and he closed the door.

His heart beat quickly as he rubbed the parchment between his fingers, deciding whether or not to open it. Surely not. Surely it wasn't them already. He inhaled, fumbled with the seal for a minute, then tore the missive open. 

_Vinci – _

_I have been looking for you. I must speak with you. Jacques is dead._

_I must leave Nice for a few days, but I will contact you on Saturday night. Leave a candle burning in your window. It is very important. I mean you no harm. Please believe me._

_Gaspard_

Erik's first reaction was one of confusion. _Jacques is dead_. How? When? When he last saw the man he had been alive and well. And why did Gaspard write this? Did he expect him to co-operate and see him? He was just going to take Erik back to them, wasn't he? But if Jacques really was dead, that changed everything…

Saturday. How in God's name was he to be here on Saturday? He would be gone before Friday.

Erik thought carefully on the events that had brought him here – looking for any clue that would help.

* * *

Since he sold the daroga's painting, about two years ago now, Erik had worked even better and more efficiently than before. He dutifully made the copies, and in between, churned out pretty pictures to sell. He began to spend more of his earnings, saving up to buy fine food and alcohol and all the other creature comforts he had previously denied himself. Indulgence pleased him more than anything. 

Since he no longer spent every waking minute painting Christine – he didn't paint her at all, in fact – he began to go outside occasionally. He had to do so to get his good clothes made, but he also enjoyed going to bookshops and buying his own wine. This was when he switched over to using a plaster-and-bandage mask – one day, he had seen a gentleman with a white patch of gauze over one eye, and was struck with the idea that an ill or wounded man was less threatening, and aroused less suspicion than one in a mysterious mask. It worked fairly well – salespeople, though sometimes uncomfortable or curious, served him without any fuss, usually assuming he was back from the colonies or something of that sort. And when he was rude and snide to them, it only enhanced the image of a demanding, irritable gentleman. He genuinely enjoyed the role, watching people grovel before him as he laughed into his sleeve. They weren't deferential because they thought he would harm them physically, or because they thought he was a ghost … it was simply because they thought he had money. Money and its power amused him no end; he played with it as much as he could afford to.

This was also when he took on his new name, though he never let the gang hear it (it was strictly reserved for uptown business). He had chosen 'Angebeau'. _Beautiful Angel. _It was a dark little joke he had with himself, and he had chuckled when he christened himself with it.

Those two years passed quickly for Erik – once he had realised the futility of doing anything, life had assumed a calm, mellow coating. The certainty of knowing that only emptiness lay at its centre was a comfort. His days, weeks and months settled into a bland but soothingly predictable cycle of working, sleeping, eating, and gorging himself on the good things in life when he could get them. He didn't have to think beyond his tasks for the day, and that was a relief – indifference was like a drug, calming him and making him more controlled.

He read books, generally on the sciences – he dipped into philosophy sometimes, but mostly laughed at those, when he was alone. He also bought a second-hand copy of the Bible, and that made him laugh hardest of all. Many things struck him as funny in those days, and it was all even more amusing because he appeared to be the only one who understood the joke. Solitary mirth has a way of reinforcing itself, when there is no-one around to make the humour go stale.

Overall, he thought it was a peaceful life he led, and he was content.

However, one day, just a few weeks ago, he had come home from town to find Jacques in his house. Erik was annoyed – he had deliberately made the lock on the door difficult to pick, because he didn't want the others prowling around while he wasn't there. Jacques must have worked at it a long time.

"Hello, Vinci!" Jacques uttered the words cheerfully.

Erik's lips curved slightly, forming a subtly contemptuous frown. "Good afternoon. Looking for something, are we, Monsieur?" He spoke softly and evenly. A brief glance at the secret panel which concealed his money assured him that the stash had not been found.

"What? No, no," the other replied nonchalantly. He shot the artist a dazzling grin and walked around easily, trailing his hands over the furniture. "Just visiting."

Erik began to put his parcels away, keeping his eyes lowered. "I believe it is customary for visitors to knock, instead of picking locks," he replied dryly.

"Ha-ha," blurted Jacques with a thoroughly amiable expression. "Well, if we're discussing common curtesies, you might consider simplifying your lock … I spent near _half an hour_ on that freezing cold stoop opening the darn complicated thing!"

"My apologies. Next time I go out, I'll nail the schematics to the door."

"Now there's an idea!" He laughed. "Anyway, you can make it up to me now by offering me a drink." He turned to the table which served as a bar and began fingering the bottles and decanters.

Erik finished his chore by shoving the last volume onto its shelf. "Jacques, when have you ever needed me to _offer_ you anything?"

"Well, I suppose you're right there," he said with a smile, as he finally selected a bottle and pulled it from its place. He poured himself a large brandy and continued walking about the room with the leisurely air of a patron in an art gallery.

He came to a stop in front of the easel. "I was just wondering who this lovely girl was."

Erik looked up from the books he had been rearranging. On the easel was a painting he had been working on – it was one of the old pictures of Christine, which he was gradually covering up with a garden scene. It was about half done, but most of her face was still visible underneath. He cursed silently, but turned to Jacques with a bland expression.

"It is no-one in particular. There was no model. I was experimenting with portraits for a while, but I gave it up – the outdoor scenes are easier and they sell better."

Jacques squinted and scratched his stubble. "Really? It's so strange … she looks familiar to me, but I can't quite place her."

"Perhaps." Erik shrugged. "It's possible she was a real person, stored in my memory somewhere."

The man didn't appear to be listening. There was a long pause and then he laughed softly. "You always were a tricky one, Vinci. '_It's possible she was a real person'_. Ha. You know very well that that is Christine Daae, the opera singer."

Erik froze. Jacques merely watched him, judging his reaction, before speaking again.

"That's right, isn't it? After all, you had this newspaper clipping right here in your drawer."

Erik watched as Jacques drew a yellowing piece of paper out of his pocket. Sure enough, it was an article about Christine from years back, complete with a sketch. He thought he had burnt them all, but this cur had managed to dig one up out of some forgotten corner of his desk.

Jacques broke the silence. "And … well, my friend, seeing this makes many things fall into place," he added significantly.

Finally, Erik found his tongue. "What do you _want_?" he asked, his voice low and harsh.

Jacques held his palms up with an expression of mock surprise. "Easy, Vinci, easy. Why do you assume I want something?" He crossed the room and tried to put his hand on the artist's shoulder, but it was batted away. "You are much more useful to us alive and free than you would be in the hands of the police. Don't worry, my friend. You have kept our secrets, we will keep yours. We don't like the police any more than you do."

He nodded with an oily smile and stuffed the newspaper clipping into Erik's front pocket. Then, he gave the artist a reassuring pat on the back and with a few clicks of his boots, he had disappeared through the door.

Left alone, Erik's mind whirled. _So Jacques knew_. Soon the others would know too. What would it mean? Despite his mistrust of the leader, Erik believed him when he said they would not spontaneously turn him in to the police. It would serve no purpose, and would only deprive their operation of his services. But he knew that every member of the gang was wanted by the police for something – and when it came to the crunch, Erik would be a useful bargaining chip. If, for example, Jacques were taken in, he would not hesitate to offer up the infamous Opera Ghost in return for his liberty. Oh yes, Erik would be _very_ useful to them – he was the ace up their sleeve.

He decided he would not just sit around and wait for that day to come. He had to get away from them, somewhere they couldn't find him. Over the next few weeks, he secretly prepared to leave – he used his savings to buy good luggage, and some fine suits. He would disguise himself as a gentleman and hope to avoid them by travelling where they had no contacts. He knew they may try to come after him, for they would not like losing their technical expert and safety net. So he planned his departure from Paris to coincide with one of Jacques' 'business trips' (usually this meant he was meeting with customers or suppliers out of town), when their operations stopped for a few weeks. He usually had no contact with any of them during such times, so his absence would not immediately be missed – by this he hoped to gain a head start, if they did decided to follow him. He was sure that if he could only evade them for long enough, they would decide he was not worth the trouble and give up.

So, on the appointed day, he had simply gotten on a train and left.

* * *

That was all he knew. He knew nothing of Jacques' death, or what Gaspard wanted. He had assumed the boy was following him in order to bring him back to Paris … but then why would he send this note, alerting Erik to his presence? The smartest thing to do would have been to leave him be, let him think he was safe, get reinforcements and then pounce on him when he wasn't expecting it. If that was really Gaspard's mission, he had just done a very stupid thing. How did he know Erik wouldn't just vanish between now and Saturday? 

There was something more to this, something Erik didn't know. Gaspard was a bright lad, and had always been helpful to him … could he trust him? _Dare_ he trust him? He decided to wait for Saturday. It was perhaps a dangerous thing to do, but until he knew the facts of the situation he would be running blind. The boy had proven to be an extraordinary tracker, and could no doubt follow him wherever he decided to go … meeting him now would save a lot of time.

So, he would have to stay through Friday, come what may. His only hope was to suddenly come down with some sort of illness before Vivienne's party, to avoid an … awkward … meeting with the De Chagnys. _Awkward_. He laughed a small, bitter laugh. He knew what the result of such an awkward meeting would probably be – his head on the executioner's block, if her husband didn't run him through with a sword on the spot.

As he would have expected, he had no interest in seeing Christine – that was settled long ago … they were strangers now, and would be ships passing in the night. She was merely a relic of his past foolishness, a period of his life he looked back upon with contempt.

He didn't care … as long as they didn't recognise him, all would be well. The painting still worried him a little, but he became more and more convinced that there was no possible way they could link it to him.

Yes, all would be well.


End file.
